
Class. 



Po.Jr 



Yf\yW(\ 




FOR EVERY SEASON 



X 



"The pleasant books, that silently among 

Our household treasures take familiar places, 
And are to us as if a living tongue 

Spake from the printed leaves or pictured faces ! " 

L oitg/elloiv 




BOSTON 
TICKNOR AND FIELDS 

1864 







Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by 

TICKNOR AND FIELDS, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



^0 



dfij 



University Press: 

Welch, Bigelow, and Company, 

Cambridge. 



CONTENTS. 

Pack 

Alfred Tennyson : The Hesperides .... 1 
Thomas Hughes : The Ashen Fagot ... 6 

Oliver Wendell Holmes : Contentment . . .47 
Anna Thackeray : Little Scholars .... 50 

A. West : Andante 68 

Sir Thomas Browne : On Dreams . . . . 69 

Christina Rossetti : Goblin Market .... 74 
Theodore AVinthrop : Love and Skates . . . 92 

D. G. Rossetti: The Blessed Damozel . . .162 

Jean Paul: The Happy Life of a Parish Priest . 167 
George Macdonald : The Golden Key . . .173 
Samuel Smiles: John Flaxman . . . . 176 

John G. Whittier : Raphael 185 

W. M. Thackeray: Tunbridge Toys . . . 188 

William Wordsworth: To the Moon . . .196 
Lord Jeffrey: Character of Watt . . . . 198 



IV CONTENTS. 

Leigh Hunt : Love-Letters made of Flowers . . 203 

Thomas Fuller : The Virtuous Lady . . . 205 

D. A. Wasson: All's Well 212 

Charles Dickens : Carlavero's Bottle . . . 215 

Mrs. H. B. Stowe : When I awake, I am still with thee 227 

Julius Charles Hare : Laughter .... 228 

Adelaide A. Procter : Links with Heaven . . 241 

Henry D. Thoreau : Winter Animals in the Woods 243 

Sydney Dobell : Home, Wounded .... 253 

Sir Philip Sidney : Thoughts from the Arcadia . 263 

J. T. Trowbridge : The Name in the Bark . . 265 

Rose Terry: A Woman 267 

J. G. Holland : Daniel Gray 295 

Alexander Carlyle : My Friends . . . . 298 

Shelley: Beatrice's Song 317 

Elizabeth Sheppard : The Children's Cities . . 318 



THE HESPERIDES; 



By ALFKED TENNYSON. 



"Hesperus and his daughters three, 
That sing about the golden tree." — CoMUS. 



THE North-wind fallen, in tlie new-starred night 
Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond 
The hoary promontory of Soloe 
Past Thymiaterion, in calmed bays, 
Between the southern and the western Horn, 
Heard neither warbling of the nightingale. 
Nor melody o' the Lybian lotus-flute 
Blown seaward from the shore ; but from a slope 
That ran bloom-bright into the Atlantic blue, 
Beneath a highland leaning down a weight 
Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedar-shade, 
Came voices, hke the voices in a dream, 
Continuous, till he reached the outer sea. 

SONG. 
I. 

The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit, 
Guard it well, guard it warily, 

* The Laureate of England (whose latest portrait fronts our title-page) 
has seen fit to ignore many of his earlier productions, some of which he 
thought well enough of once. The one entitled " Hesperides " is too gen« 

1 



2 ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Singing airily, 

Standing about the charmed root. 

Round about all is mute, 

As the snow-field on the mountain-peaks, 

As the sand-field at the mountain-foot. 

Crocodiles in briny creeks 

Sleep and stir not : all is mute. 

If ye sing not, if ye make false measure, 

We shall lose eternal pleasure, 

Worth eternal want of rest. 

Laugh not loudly : watch the treasure 

Of the wisdom of the west. 

In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three 

(Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful mystery. 

For the blossom unto threefold music bloweth ; 

Evermore it is born anew ; 

And the sap to threefold music floweth, 

From the root 

Drawn in the dark. 

Up to the fruit, 

Creeping under the fragrant bark, 

Liquid gold, honey-sweet, through and through. 

Keen-eyed sisters, singing airily, 

Looking warily 

Every way. 

Guard the apple night and day. 

Lest one from the east come and take it away. 



II. 

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, ever and aye, 
Looking under silver hair with a silver eye. 

uine a poem to be left out of his "complete edition," and we print it here 
because we think it worthy of the bard of " Locksley Hall" and " The 
Ladv of Shalott." 



THE HESPERIDES. 3 

Father, twinkle not thy steadfast sight ; 

Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, and races die ; 

Honor comes with mystery ; 

Hoarded wisdom brings delight. 

Number, tell them over and number 

How many the mystic fruit-tree holds, 

Lest the red-combed dragon slumber 

Rolled together in purple folds. 

Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden apple be 

stolen away, 
For his ancient heart is drunk with overwatcliings night 

and day. 
Round about the hallowed fruit-tree curled : 
Sing away, sing aloud evermore in the wind, without stop, 
Lest his scaled eyelid drop. 
For he is older than the world. 
If he waken, we waken. 
Rapidly levelling eager eyes. 
If he sleep, we sleep, 
Dropping the eyelid over the eyes. 
If the golden apple be taken, 
The world will be over wise. 
Five links, a golden chain, are we, 
Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, 
Bound about the golden tree. 

III. 

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, night and day, 

Lest the old wound of the world be healed. 

The glory unsealed, 

The golden apple stolen away. 

And the ancient secret revealed. 

Look from west to east along : 

Father, old Himala weakens, Caucasus is bold and strong. 



4 ALFEED TENNYSON. 

"Wandering waters unto wandering waters call ; 

Let them clash together, foam and fall. 

Out of watchings, out of wiles, 

Comes the bliss of secret smiles. 

All tilings are not told to all. 

Half-round the mantling night is drawn, 

Purple-fringed with even and dawn. 

Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth morn. 

IV. 

Every flower and every fruit the redolent breath 

Of this warm sea-wind ripeneth. 

Arching the billow in his sleep ; 

But the land-wind wandereth, 

Broken by the highland-steep. 

Two streams upon the violet deep : 

For the western sun and the western star, 

And the low west-wind, breathing afar. 

The end of day and beginning of night, 

Make the apple holy and bright ; 

Holy and bright, round and full, bright and blest, 

Mellowed in a land of rest ; 

Watch it warily day and night ; 

All good things are in the west. 

Till midnoon the cool east light 

Is shut out by the round of the tall hill-brow ; 

But when the full-faced sunset yellowly 

Stays on the flowering arch of the bough. 

The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly, 

Golden-kernelled, golden-cored, 

Sunset-ripened above on the tree. 

The world is wasted with fire and sword. 

But the apple of gold hangs over the sea. 

Five links, a golden chain, are we, 



THE HESPERIDES. 

Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, 

Daughters three, 

Bound about * 

All round about 

The gnarled bole of the charmed tree. 

The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit, 

Guard it well, guard it warily, 

Watch it warily, 

Singing airily. 

Standing about the charmed root. 



THE ASHEN EAGOT. 

By THOMAS HUGHES, 

AUTHOR OF "TOM BROWN AT OXFORD," ETC. 

CHAPTER I. 

AT about four o'clock on Christmas Eve, a year or two 
back, two men trudged briskly up the little village 
street of Lilburne, in the county of Wilts. They were both 
dressed in rough shooting-suits, and one carried a conunon 
game-bag, and the other a knapsack. Each of them had a 
stout stick in his hand. The elder, who might be six or 
seven and twenty, wore a strong reddish-brown beard. The 
rest of his rather broad face was well tanned by exposure to 
weather ; he had a clear, merry gray eye, and an air of very 
British self-reliance about him. The younger, in his twen- 
tieth year, or ther'&abouts, wore also as much beard as nar 
ture had yet bestowed on him, and was tanned a ruddy 
brown. He was darker than his companion, and his com- 
plexion would have been sallow, but for the work of sun 
and air on it. There was the possibility of great ner- 
vous irritability and excitableness in the look of him ; but 
this natural tendency of his constitution and temperament 
seemed, at least for the present, to be counteracted by 
robust health. 

The two stopped at the door of " The Wagoner's Eest," 
the only public house of Lilburne village. 

" Well, here we are then, at the last stage. How much 
farther do you say it is ? " 




THL AUTHOR OF 
" Tom Brown at Oaford", and 'Sdiodl Da.ys at Rugbv:' 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 7 

"Just six miles." 

" I 'm never quite at ease about your arithmetic, Johnny. 
Hullo here. House! landlord! who's at home here?" and 
he gave a thump or two on the door-post, which brought 
mine host out with a run. 

" How far do you call it to Avenly, landlord ? " 

"A matter o' seven miles, sir." 

" There, you see, Herbert, I was n't far wrong," said the 
younger. 

" A mile out, Johnny, — never mind. Now what do you 
say ? shall we push on at once, or stop and feed ? " 

" What should you like ? " 

" That has nothing to say to it. You 're in command, you 
know, since this morning." 

" Well, I should n't like to be there very early. I 'm 
sure you would feel yourself — " 

" Then we call a halt," interrupted the elder, leading the 
way into the house ; " this cold air of yours has given me a 
deuce of an appetite. Now, landlord, what can we have to 
eat, directly ? Some cold meat, or whatever you can give 
us at once. Mind, sharp 's the word ! Or, never mind, no, 
you go and draw us some of your best tap. You '11 help us, 
ma'am, I can see, about the eatables, and I 'm sure we 
couldn't be in better hands." 

This speech, begun in the street, ended in the tiny bar of 

"The Wagoner's Rest," in which the hostess stood, a tidy, 

well-looking woman, in Sunday cap and ribbons, donned in 

■ honor of the season, and of the rush of guests whom she 

was expecting as the day wore on. 

She was flattered by the compliment of her off-hand 
guest, who clearly was not in the habit of letting the 
grass grow on liis own heels, or on those of any one else 
with whom he had to do. ^He had sent her bustling off in 
a minute or two to cook rashers of bacon on toast, and to 
run romid to the yard in the forlorn hope that one of the 



8 THOMAS HUGHES. 

hens might have so forgotten herself as to lay in such 
weather, in that cold, dark little stable of " The Wagoner's 
Rest." Meanwhile, he had taken possession of the bar, 
heaped up the fire, seated his companion opposite to him, 
and, by the time the landlord arrived with a jug of his best 
ale, was as much at home as if he had been in the habit of 
taking his meals there once a week for the last ten years. 

" I 'm afraid you '11 find it a leetel chilly, gentlemen," said 
the landlord, as he placed the jug and glasses on the table ; 
"the cellar ain't altogether as warm as it should be." 

" O, never fear ! We shall warm your ale fast enough, 
I've no doubt. Home-brewed, eh?" 

" Ees, whoam-brewed, sir ; I does the maltin' for all the 
farmers round. 'Tis raal malt and hops, I assure 'ee." 

" That 's all right then. Yes, that has the right smack," 
he went on, pouring out a glass and taking it off, " fine and 
bright and wholesome tackle. We have n't tasted such ale 
this many a day, have we, Johnny ? But, as you say, a 
little chilled ; so we '11 put it on the hob till the rashers 
come. Real old Christmas weather this, eh, landlord ? " 

«Ah, 'tis, sir." 

" And when does your mail-cart come by ? " 

"At eight o'clock, sir." 

"Well, the driver will bring our traps, and there is a 
carrier from this to Avenly, is n't there ? " 

"Ees, sir." 

" Does he live here ? " 

"Just athert the street, sir." 

" Then I should like to see him. You can send over for 
liim presently. Ah, here come the rashers. They look 
splendid, ma'am. But no eggs ! " 

" Well, sir, you see as our hens gets no het about the 
place. My master don't kep no beastesses. There 's no 
'commodation for 'em here, — and I tells 'un th' hens wunt 
lay without het." 



THE ASHEN FACxOT. 9 

" Never mind, ma'am ; the hens are quite right. We 
shall do famously with that splendid loaf and the cheese. 
Here, Johnny, hold your plate. We 're not turning you out, 
ma'am ? Pray, don't go, don't mind us." 

The landlady protested that they were quite welcome to 
the bar, and soon followed her husband, leaving them alone 
to their meal, to which they proceeded to do ample justice. 
The worthy pair were soon discussing their guests with one 
or two village gossips, who had already arrived in the 
kitchen, — amongst them the village carrier. 

The travellers lost no time over their food. The land- 
lady was summoned, complimented, and paid, and came out 
of her bar again very favorably impressed with the stran- 
gers. In another minute they were in the kitchen amongst 
the circle of the Lilburne quidnuncs, ready for the road. 
The elder made the necessary arrangement with the carrier 
to bring on their luggage, and then, after shaking hands 
with the courtesying landlady, they sallied out into the 
street, accompanied to the door by the landlord and several 
of the men. The daylight was fast slipping away. The 
air was perfectly still and hushed, but a dull heavy curtain 
of cloud had settled on the village, from which every now 
and then a crisp flake or two of snow came floating gently 
down. 

" We sha'n't have much light for our walk, Johnny ; are 
you sure about the road?" 

"I should think so. Besides, there is no turn in it 
except the one at the end of the village, on to the downs." 

"Very good. You are pilot. It's a straight road to 
Avenly, eh ? " he added, turnmg to the carrier. 

" Ees ; but 't is a unked road to kep to in a vail, is the 
downs road," replied the carrier, " by reason as there ain't 
no hedges, and sech like, to go by." 

" You think we 're going to have a fall, then ? " 

" It hev looked like nothin' else aal day." 



10 THOMAS HUGHES. 

" Then we must make the most of the daylight. The 
moon will be up in an hour." 

" Ees ; but her '11 kep t' other side o' th' fall, zur." 

" Small blame to her. Well, good night." 

A chorus of " Good nights " from the conclave at the 
door of " The Wagoner's Rest " followed the two travel- 
lers, as they strode away down the village street. Before 
they were out of sight, the snow began to fall in earnest. 
The villagers stood gaping after them. Such an event was 
to them as good as a war telegram to their kindred circles 
in the neighborhood of St. James's. 

" Be 'em gen'l'volk, now, zhould 'ee zay ? " asked the 
blacksmith, taking his pipe from his mouth. 

" Gen'l'volk ! Wut bist thenkin' ov ? " replied the 
carrier. 

"Wut, dost n't thenk so? I'ze.warn'd 'em for gen'l'- 
volk, that I 'ool," put in the landlord. " Wut dost take 'em 
for, then ? " 

" Zummat in th' engineerin' line, or contractor chaps, 
med be." 

" Noa, noa ! Thaay be too pleasant-spoken, and don't 
give no trouble." 

" But wut dost zaay to them ther' girt beards ? And th' 
clothes on 'em like zacks, and mwoast as coarse ? " 

The beard movement, and modern habits of dress, had 
not yet penetrated to Lilburne. The carrier's last remark 
seemed to puzzle the landlord, more or less. 
. " Wut dost zaay. Muster Gabbet ? " he said, turning to 
one of the circle, who had not yet spoken ; " be 'em gen'l'- 
volk, or bean't 'em ? " 

The person appealed to had been a groom in his youth, 
who had seen " Lunnon," and other distant countries. He 
kept a pony, too, on which he frequented all neighboring 
meets of hounds, and other sporting gatherings, and was 
considered a great authority by the Lilburne coterie on any 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 11 

matter involving knowledge of life. From his contact with 
the outer world the edges of his accent had been rubbed off. 
He was a man of few and weighty words. 

" Gentlemen, to be sure," replied Mr. Gabbet. 

" I told 'ee zo," said the landlord, triumphantly, turning to 
the carrier. 

" Wi' beards like bottle-brushes ! haw, haw ! " rejoined 
that worthy, by no means discomfited. 

" That 's no odds," replied Mr. Gabbet. " Last coursin' 
meetin' ther' was half th' young squires wi' beards." 

" And wi' duds on 'em, like galley-crows, I s'poses ! haw, 
haw ! " said the incredulous carrier. 

" What dost go on laaffin' for, thee girt gawney ? " said the 
landlord ; " that 's how th' gen'l'volk do dress now-a-days, 
bean't it, Mr. Gabbet? Ther' wur young Squire Mundell 
passed here only last week, dressed noways different from 
thaay; only he'd a got zhart wide breeches, and red striped 
stockin's, he had, and martal queer a did look." 

"They calls them dresses nick-and-nockers," said Mr. 
Gabbet, gravely. 

" Nockers or no, / dwont call 'em gen'l'volk," persisted 
the incorrigible carrier. 

" Thee 'st as cam as a peg. 'T ain't a mossel o' use to talk 
sense to th'." 

At this point of the dialogue the objects of the conversa- 
tion took the turn towards the downs, and disappeared, and 
Mr. Gabbet retired suddenly into the house. He was fol- 
lowed at once by the rest, and the knotty question was 
adjourned to the chimney-corner, where it furnished talk 
for the rest of the evening, and caused the consumption of 
several extra mugs of beer. 



12 THOMAS HUGHES. 



CHAPTER II. 



The little hamlet of Avenly is dropped, as it were, in a 
dip of tlie downs, many miles from anything approaching to 
a town. It consists of a miniature church, and neat parson- 
age-house and garden ; the manor-house and curtilage, 
which we must look at more closely presently ; one pubhc 
house ; two or three general shops in a very small way, one 
of which is the post-office ; and a dozen or two thatched 
cottages. These are scattered prettily enough by the side 
of the road from Lilburne to Devizes, or of the little clear 
brook, which runs parallel to the road through the hamlet, 
between the church and the manor-house. 

There are three or four clumps of fine ashes and elms in 
or near the hamlet, of which the biggest is the rookery at 
the end of the manor-garden. There is also timber in the 
fences of the few enclosures, one of which enclosures is a 
fine orchard, and there are fruit-trees in most of the cottage- 
gardens. Where the hamlet stands, the dip is not half a 
mile across ; it is narrower yet above, and widens below. 
The downs encircle the place on all sides. Except within 
the enclosures, not a tree is to be seen ; and the contrast is 
what gives its peculiar charm to the little out-of-the-way 
place, as it lies there in the lap of the great brown bare 
downs, rejoicing in its own shade and verdure. The first 
glance from the brow above, as you come upon it either 
from the Lilburne or Devizes side, shows you at once the 
character of the place. It has the special characteristics of 
the old manor, — the big house in the middle, the little copy- 
hold tenements clustering about it, and around a sea of com- 
mon lands ; not that the lands are copyhold, but the manor- 
house is so completely the centre of the little community, 
that one could easily fancy the little people about holding 
their allotments still by suit and service, — as indeed they 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 13 

do ; for almost all of them are employed by the owner of 
the manor-house. 

The manor-house itself is one in which the first impres- 
sion you get on entering, and the last which remains with 
you after you leave, will most likely be that here, if any- 
where in the world, there is no lack of anything. 

There is no lack of room. The house is a great, old- 
fashioned, rambling brick and flint building, with more 
rooms than anybody can possibly want who is ever likely 
to live there, and not the sort of little useless rooms which 
one often sees in country houses, but good, large twenty- 
foot-by-fifteen places, where a dozen children might romp 
on a wet day. The outhouses, which have been built up by 
successive generations of wealthy tillers of the soil, each of 
whom has had some special fancy in the matter of stables, 
brew-houses, granaries, or barns, are various, solid, and 
quaint. They surround a yard which covers half an acre 
of ground, paved with flint round two of the sides to a 
breadth of some twelve feet, but otherwise soft-bottomed and 
full of straw, in which fat heifers stand over their hocks, 
and munch out of the racks which are set up at several 
points and constantly replenished, and saucy calves dis[)ort 
themselves, and bully the younger generations of small- 
limbed, fat-sided black pigs, their fellow-occupants. There 
is animal life of all kinds, representatives of every species 
of domestic beast or fowl which can be used either for profit 
or pleasure. There is no lack of dead stock, — dozens of 
hay-ricks and corn-stacks^ thatched mounds full of mangold- 
wurzel and turnips and potatoes, besides well-stored bams 
and granaries ; a dozen ploughs, eight or ten wagons, carts, 
a light carriage or two, and a steam-engine. 

And, lastly, there is no lack of human stock to crown the 
whole ; jolter-headed plough-boys and carter-boys, and farm- 
servants and house-servants, and " the family," with whom 
we are chiefly concerned. The head of these, and feudal 



14 THOMAS HUGHES. 

king and lord paramount of the little hamlet of Avenly, is 
Farmer John Kendrick, as he would call himself, — Squire 
Kendrick, as the peasantry all around call him. He is the 
fourth or fifth in descent of his family, who have owned a 
considerable tract of land in the dip of the downs in which 
Avenly lies ; and, besides his own land, he farms a great 
tract of the downs on lease. In fact, he pays more than 
four fifths of the tithes and rates of the parish himself, and 
employs all but some dozen or so of the whole male popu- 
lation. He is, at the time of our story, a hale man of about 
forty-three, a good sportsman, and an energetic and success- 
ful farmer, reasonably well educated, and open-minded, of 
good plain manners, without much polish. He has no near 
neighbors, except his parson, and no spare time to go far 
a-field for society ; so that he sees little of it. A just and a 
kind man, but hot-tempered and somewhat arbitrary, from 
having had his own way since he was a boy of nineteen, 
when his father died. He married early the daughter of a 
clergyman's widow, a lady of education and refinement, 
whom, nevertheless, he had managed to make very happy, 
and who had borne him a large family. 

On the morning of the Christmas Eve with which we are 
concerned, Mrs. Kendrick is making tea in the south parlor 
of the manor, at a long table, while her eldest daughter 
Mabel, a girl of eighteen, is cutting large plates of bread- 
and-butter, and filling mugs with new milk for the younger 
branches. Presently the bell rings for prayers, and the gov- 
erness with her convoy arrive at one door, while two school- 
boys of fifteen and fourteen, and a small boy of nine — 
proud of having been out with his big brothers — come in 
with rosy cheeks from the hall. 

" You can call the servants in, Willie," said Mrs. Ken- 
drick to the eldest boy, as soon as she had returned all their 
salutes ; " we are not to wait for papa." 

After prayers, the serious business of breakfast began, 
amidst a Babel of talk from the boys. 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 15 

" Have n't we had a jolly morning, mamma ? Parker's 
pond is frozen over splendidly, and we 've been sliding ever 
since it was light." 

" And I can do butter-and-eggs all down the long slide, 
which the carter-boys have made, can't I, Willie ? " (The 
feat of butter-and-eggs, be it knoivn to those readers who 
are not up to the higher mysteries of sliding, consists in 
going down the slide on one foot, and beating with the heel 
and toe of the other at short intervals.) 

" Yes, and Bobby is getting on famously, and goes at the 
slide like a little dragon," said "Willie. Bobby, the small 
boy of nine, looked up proudly at his mother, with his 
mouth too full of bread-and-butter to be able to take liis own 
part by speech at the moment. 

" Bobby has n't learnt a word of his lessons though," said 
a staid little girl of twelve, looking up from her milk ; " and 
Miss Smith says he '11 have to stay in after breakfast to do 
them." 

" That 's just like you now, Clara," retorted Dick, the 
butter-and-eggs boy ; " wliy can't you mind your own les- 
sons, and let Bobby alone ? " 

" But, Bobby, how did you get out so early ? " asked Mrs. 
Kendrick. 

" 0, Willie came in and told me I might get up and 
come with them." 

" Yes, mamma, and I 'm sure it will do him good to be 
out with us, instead of being with tlie girls. He need n't do 
lessons, need he, just at Christmas time ? " 

" Well, dear, Bobby shall have a holiday, and may go 
with you. But you must take care of him, for he 's only a 
little fellow, remember." 

" O, yes, that we mil." 

" May n't I have some cold beef, mamma ? " broke in Dick, 
and, permission being given, he and Willie helped them- 
selves at the sideboard, and kept the conversation alive 



16 • THOMAS HUGHES. 

with accounts of the game of hockey they were going to 
have with the carter-boys, who were to break off work at 
twelve, and the rat-catching which was to come off in the 
big barn in the afternoon. 

" And to-night is Ashen Fagot night, is n't it, mamma ? 
and you '11 let us all go, and you and papa will come ? You 
did n't go in last year ; and I heard Joe, the head carter, say 
it was n't like Ashen Fagot if master and mistress did n't 
come in." 

A shade passed over Mrs. Kendrick's face, but she said 
quietly, " Perhaps your papa will look in, dear ; and, at any 
rate, you can all go for an hour or two." 

" And 0, mamma, shall we see the mummers ? " asked a 
little bright-eyed girl of eight. 
t " Most likely, Maggy. They are sure to come, I think." 

" But where 's papa ? Why does n't he come to break- 
fast?" 

"He has ridden out. He will come down and see you 
slidmg after breakfast, I 'm sure." 

" Do you think I might take his skates ? Dick wants to 
begin, and I could lend him mine if I may have papa's." 

" Yes, certainly, dear. I 'm sure papa would wish you to 
have them." 

" But, Willie," interrupted Dick, " there 's that pair of 
smaller ones, hanging up by papa's ; they would fit you 
better, you know. What's the matter? Why do you 
kick me under the table ? " 

Willie answered by a frown at his brother, and then 
glanced up hastily at his mother, who had bent down over 
her teacup. Mabel, who had been watching her mother 
since the mention of the Ashen Fagot, got up quickly, 
saying, — 

" 0, there 's papa ; I 'm sure I heard his horse. Let us 
go and bring him in." 

The breakfast circle broke up at once. Willie lingered, 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 17 

looking at his mother, who looked up presently, and 
said, — 

" You can take papa's skates, dear ; but you must n't have 
the other pair." 

" Of course, dear mother, I know," he said, going up to 
her fondly. And she kissed him, and he pressed her hand, 
and then went off after his brothers. Mabel came back 
with her father, and took out some embroidery-work, and 
sat by him, while IVirs. Kendrick poured out his tea. Each 
of them made some efforts to talk, but they were failures, 
and John Kendrick finished his breakfast in silence. When 
he had done, he got up and walked to one of the windows 
and looked out, and his wife came and put her hand on his 
shoulder. He took her other hand in his, and said, — 

" It was selfish of me to leave you this morning, dear, but 
I could n't have borne the children's merry prattle so early. 
I shall be better before dinner-time. What are the boys 
doing ? " 

" They have gone down to the pond, dear, full of aU their 
plans. They are very happy. Shall we dine alone, — just 
you, I, and Mabel?" 

" No, no ! I must face it. It 's only just to-day. One 
must make home cheerful to them in their holidays." 

" Indeed, dear John, they are very happy ; are not they, 
Mabel?" 

" Yes, really, papa ; and Willie is so thoughtful and nice." 

'" He 's a fine character, thank God," said Mr. Kendrick ; 
and then, after a minute's pause, he went on : " Only to 
have written those three lines all this time. For myself, I 
should n't wonder, but the cruelty of such silence to you, — 
to Mabel—" 

"But, dearest John, remember they were written on 
board ship. He may never have had a chance of writing 
again." 

" God knows, dearest. A cold heart, I fear." 
2 



18 THOMAS HUGHES. 

" O, no, papa. Indeed you wrong him. He was wild 
and headstrong, but never cold or cruel." 

" I would ,give all I am worth to be sure of it, Mabel. 
Come, come, we must bear it as we may. Shall we walk 
out presently, dear ? I want to go to the bailiff's cottage, 
and to call at old Jacob Eagleton's. His wife 's ill again ; 
we can carry her some wine, and take the pond on the way 
home, and see the boys slide." 

" In half an hour, dear ? " 

" Yes. You and Mabe will call for me, then, in my 
room." 

John Kendrick went to his study, and sat down before 
his library table, and looked for five minutes absently across 
the room and out of the window ; a most unwonted thing 
for him. Then he roused himself with a start and a sigh, 
and took a small bundle of letters and papers, chiefly bills, 
out of the drawer of his library table. The letters were in 
a school-boy hand. He read them through, tied up the 
packet, and put them back, and then went and unlocked a 
cupboard, and was looking at a cap, a riding-whip, and 
cricket-bat, and other articles of dress and sport which it 
contained, when he heard his wife's step. He shut and 
locked the door of the cupboard, and turned to meet her 
ajid Mabel. 

" Here we are, dear, ready for our walk, and here 's the 
post-bag." 

John Kendrick took it and unlocked it, turning the con- 
tents on to his table. A couple of papers and a half a 
dozen letters fell out. He took up the first and was reading 
it, when his wife broke out, — 

" John, look here ! what is this ? " 

She held out to him a soiled letter, with a strange stamp 
on it. He took it, looked at it for a moment, tore it open 
with a trembling hand, and glanced through it, and then, 
handing it to his wife, leant forward on the table, bui-ying 
his face in his hands. 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 19 

Mabel read eagerly over her mother's shoulder, glancing 
rapidly ffom the page to the loved face, out of which the 
look of repressed sorrow which had haunted it for more 
than a year was passing, while tears ran down her cheeks, 
and hindered her from reading. But, as she finished, she 
stooped, and threw her arm round her husband's neck and 
said, — 

" John, God has been very good to us to-day. This day, 
too, of all others." 

Mr. Kendrick squeezed his wife's hand, and then got up 
and took two or three turns about the room, while his wife 
and daughter still pored over the letter. 

" He is alive, at any rate, and well, and earning his bread 
honestly. But why could n't he have written before ? Why 
does n't he write himself now ? " 

*•' John, I can quite understand. It was so natural that 
he should get this friend to write for him." 

"What's the name?" 

" The signature is H. Upton. What can we do to thank 
him?" 

" What is the date of the letter ? Let me see the en- 
velope. Why, how can it have been so long ? The post- 
mark is July 2 2d." 

" Is it longer than it should have been ? " 

" Yes, the regular mail comes in less than three months." 

" Three months, papa ! what a dreadful distance ! " said 
Mabel ; " we may write to him at once, now that we know 
where he is, to tell him to come home, may n't we ? " 

" Well, we will think it over, Mabe. Perhaps he is bet- 
ter where he is." 

" Poor boy ! I wonder how he will spend this Christmas." 

Jacob Eagieton's wife got a double allowance of wine 
that morning when ]Mr. and IMi'S. Kendrick and their 
daughter visited her. 

" Wutever can be cum to the squire and missis ? " the old 



20 THOMAS HUGHES. 

woman muttered, as they left her ; " thaay hen't looked so 
cheerful, not scarce since 'em wur married. " 

Every one who met them in their walk made some re- 
mark of the same kind. 

CHAPTEE III. 

" What did that old fellow call this road of yours, John- 
ny?" asked the elder of our two travellers, giving his 
shoulders a shake, which sent an accumulation of an inch 
or so of snow off them. 

" A unked road to kep in a vail," answered Johnny, imi- 
tating the carrier's accent. 

"By Jove, he's right! How it does come down! I 
had almost forgotten what snow was hke, though I rather 
enjoy it." 

" It must have been snowing up here for hours. Look 
how deep it is. Four or five inches at least, already." 

" Whereabouts are we ? We should be half-way, at any 
rate, by this time." 

" That we must be, for we 're on level ground. It is n't 
quite two miles now to the dip just above." 

They walked on for a minute or two in silence. " What 's 
the matter, Johnny ? what are you sighing at ? " 

" I 've half a mind to turn back. I almost wish I had 
stayed out on your run, instead of coming home." 

"Nonsense, man. Cheer up. Why, in an hour's time 
you '11 be warming yourself by the Ashen Fagot, you 've 
told me so much about. We could n't have hit a more 
lucky day." 

"But don't you remember? Ashen Fagot Night was 
the very time that it all began." 

" And the properest night, then, for it all to end." 

" They never answered your letter ! " 

" There was no time, man. The answer could n't have 
come out before we had started." 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 21 

" And you think it will be all right, then ? If they only 
knew how bitterly I have grieved over it all, and how I 
have longed to see home again ! And now I 'm here, I 
don't know how to face them. I almost wish I was back 
again." 

" Cheer up, Johnny. Why, nothing would serve you but 
coming right off, the moment we landed, without giving me 
an hour in London, and now you want to be back again. 
Why, man, it will be the happiest minute of their lives, 
when they see you again." 

" Do you tliink so ? " 

" I 'm sure of it. But I '11 be hanged if I know when it 's 
likely to be, though. I can't see five yards ahead. All the 
snow in the heavens seems coming straight down on us. 
Do you think we 're in the road ? " 

" Well, I hope so ; but let 's see." And Johnny stooped 
down and scratched a hole in the snow with his hand ; the 
result of which was " Hullo ! " and a long whistle. 

"Eh, what is it?" 

" Grass, by Jove ! We 're on the downs." 

" Well, that 's jolly. Let 's try again." So the two tried 
several more places on each side of their track, with no 
better success. 

" Here 's a pretty go. Confound your unked road ! we 
shall have to camp out, or walk all night." 

" I hope not. If we go on, we must hit the Avenly dip 
somewhere." 

" Come along, then. It 's no good standing here." 

They pushed on again, and soon began to be amused by 
their adventure, and laughed and chatted, in defiance of 
snow and downs. Their talk turned on home, and the elder 
was describing his feelings on coming back. 

" By the way, Herbert, you 've never told me why you 
left the old country." 

" Because I could n't live in it, Johnny. At my father's 



22 THOMAS HUGHES. 

death I was left with a magnificent patrimony of £ 400 and 
a clerk's place of £ 40 a year. That did n't suit me. Be- 
sides, to tell the truth, I was in a bad way, — ready to hang 
myself about a young woman. There was nothing for it but 
to bolt, and seek my fortune." 

" And you 've found it, too." > 

" Yes, in one way. But it does n't seem worth much 
after all." 

*' Is she married then ? " 

" Heaven knows. I had a letter from her father, an old 
family friend, five years back. I think he suspected how 
matters stood. I never spoke, of course, as she was quite a 
girl, and it would n't have been fair. I wrote to him several 
times, but letters miscaiTy from our parts. Then I wrote 
to some people I knew, and got an answer that he had left 
our old neighborhood. Hullo ! we 've run against something 
at last. What 's this ? " 

" All right. It 's one of the down barns," said Johnny, 
when they had groped their way round the building, which 
they had nearly run against ; " we shall most likely be able 
to get in." 

But they tried both the great side-doors and found them 
locked. " Hark ! did n't I hear a sheep bleat ? " 

" Very likely. There 's often a fold and a shepherd's 
cottage close by ; which way was it ? " 

" Just down here." 

They followed the sound for a short distance, and came 
upon haulm walls and hurdles, within which were a large 
flock of sheep, and the next moment heard furious barking. 
Then through the down-pour of snow they made out a small 
cottage, the door of which opened, and a tall figure in smock- 
frock and long leather gaiters appeared, thrown out into 
relief by the light in the room behind him. 

" Quiet w'oot ! Dal th' noise ! Cas'n't let 'm harken ? " 
As the dog ceased barking, the shepherd's ear caught the 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 23 

crunching of the snow under their feet as they approached; 
" Hullo, ther' ! Wut be at wi' the vauld ? " 

" We 've lost our way on the downs to-night, that 's all. 
We came upon your fold by good luck ; may we sit down 
till the storm 's over ? " 

The shepherd looked somewhat suspiciously at them at 
first, but then moved aside. 

" Ees, ee med cum in. But 'twunt last long this starm." 
So they entered the cottage, a low two-roomed place, the 
living-room opening to the outer air, in which they found 
the shepherd's wife, and tailless dog, a small, carefully-nursed 
fire, and the tea-things laid. 

The occasion was just the one for the elder traveller, and 
he proved quite equal to it. Under his influence the shep- 
herd's wife bustled about, and the fire was piled up with as 
much fuel of old fagots, coke, and cinders as would have 
lasted the worthy couple a fortnight ; the kettle sung and 
puffed away at the unwonted stimulant administered to him ; 
the three mugs of the establishment were produced, and 
Johnny brought out a flask from his knapsack, full of good 
brandy. The coats were shaken by the shepherd, and hung 
up on pegs to dry, and in five minutes' time the whole party 
was settled down, — the hosts to their tea, and the guests to 
a mug of grog each. 

" Well, Johnny, this is n't a bad change from the Downs, 
eh ? Look here, ma'am ; let me put a drop of brandy in 
your tea; you can't think what a good tiling it is. Eh, 
shepherd, you '11 try my prescription, too, won't you ? " 

" Ef you plaase, zur. Ah, it do 'mazingly flavor th' tea ; 
d'wont it, Betty? Wun't you tek' nothin' to yeat, zur? 
You be raal welcum to 't." 

" No, thankee ; we fed at Lilbume. But if your wife 
does n't mind smoking — " 

" Blessee, noa, zur. Do 'ee light up. Hur be terrible 
vend o' th' smell o' baccur, tho' hur dwon't zmoke." 



24 THOMAS HUGHES. 

" But you do, shepherd ? " 

" Lord, ees, zur." 

" Then you must take some of my stock " ; and, suiting 
the action to the word, he emptied his big pouch on the 
table, and, separating the contents, pushed about two thirds 
over towards the shepherd, whose eyes glistened at the 
sight. 

" 'T is very kind o' you, zur ; but, can 'ee spare 't ? " 

" Yes, yes, there 's plenty more where that came from. 
And, now you Ve done your tea, draw round, and brew a 
good mug of that stuff. Don't be afraid of it; it won't 
hurt you, nor you, ma'am, either, such a night as this. Your 
health, ma'am ; your health, shepherd ; and yours, Johnny, 
and a merry Christmas to you all." 

" The zaam to you, gen'l'men, and many ov 'em." 

The shepherd drinks, and passes the mug to his wife, and 
then produces a short black pipe, which he fills, and sucks 
at with evident delight, Herbert watching him. " There 's 
nothing so comforting, when one 's out with the sheep at 
nights, as a pinch of good tobacco, eh, shepherd ? " 

" Ther' beant, zur. But how do 'ee cum to know 't ? " 

" Oh ! I 'm a shepherd myself." 

" Noa, be 'ee though ? Thee dost n't look like one, zur. 
Wut zart o' vlock 's yourn, zur ? " 

" I 've three or four, of a thousand each." 

" Vour thousand zhep ! I hopes you 've got volks wi' 
some gumption in 'em, zur, to look arter 'em these cowld 
nights." 

" 0, it 's lambing time with us, and we never have any 
nights like this." 

Shepherd chuckles, and looks incredulous. 

" You don't believe me, I see, shepherd." ' 

" I never heer'd tell o' lambin' much afore Easter." 

" But you don't understand. It 's summer now where I 
Uve." 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 25 

" Zummer at Christmas time ! a martal queer time o' year 
for zummer, zur." 

" Yes, real hot sumimer." 

" Wher do 'ee live, then, zur ? " 

" On the other side of the world. In New South 
Wales." 

" Dear heart ! and zo 't is zummer in them parts at 
Christmas tune ? Well, 't is mighty curous to think on, 
now." 

" Do'st mind, Jonas, as Mrs. Gibbins said, as her son as 
wur transported wrote from Botany Bay as the seasons wur 
all got wrong ther ? Zo a zend to zay." 

" You dwon't cum from Botany Bay, zur, do 'ee ? " 

" Well, it 's in the same part of the world. But we 're 
not returned convicts, if that 's what you mean." 

Shepherd glances at his wife, and seems much relieved. 

" But you may depend upon it, that 's the place for us 
shepherds. What would you say now to fifty pounds a 
year, and your keep, with as much beef and mutton as you 
could eat ? You don't get anything like that in the old 
country." 

Shepherd stops smoking and opens his eyes, " Vifty 
pound a year ! " 

" Ay, every penny of it, and not a bit too much. I 
should like to know who ought to be well paid if the shep- 
herd is n't. 

*If 'twas n't for the sheep and the poor shepherd, 
The world would be starved and naked,' 

you know." 

"So you knows th' owld zhearing zong ? " 

*' No, I only know a line or two that I 've picked up from 
my friend here. I should like to hear it of all things. Can't 
you give it us ? " 

The shepherd looks shy, but, after a little persuasion from 
his wife, who declares that he is noted for singing, he clears 
his throat and croons out : — 



26 THOMAS HUGHES. 

" Zeng, bwoys, zeng, a zhepherd 's as happy as a lord, 
And a zhep 's the vinest creetur owld England can afford, 
And, if you listens vor a while, the truth I zoon will tell 'ee, 
'T is clothin' to the back, my bwoys, and linin' to the belly. 
The zhepherd stands beneath the bush, a-shiverin' and shakin', 
If 't was n't vor th' zhep and th' poor zhepherd th' world 'd go starved 

and naked. 
AU along the winter time we gives our zh.ep some hay, 
Keps fodderin' and fodderin' on until the month of May. 
And, when the month of May cums in, if the weather should prove fine, 
The little lambs will skip and play, and plaase the zhepherd's mind. 
And, when the month of June cums in, if the weatiier should prove hot, 
We teks the clothin' off their backs, while the pudding 's in the pot. 
And then agen at night, my bwoys, together we will zeng, 
For a zhepherd lives as happy as ever a prince or king." 

" Thank you. I shall carry the old song back to the other 
side of the world. Now, shepherd, come, take another glass. 
The brandy is n't out, you see." 

The shepherd, after some coquetting, makes another mix- 
ture in his cup, and hands it to his wife, who puts down her 
knitting, and gets up to make a little courtesy, and say, " Your 
health, gentl'men." The shepherd takes a drink. 

" Ah ! it zims to do a body good, that do, now, — to put 
the heart into 'un, zur." 

" I 'm glad you like it. You must have a hard life of it 
up here on the downs at times." 

" Ah, 't is, zur, I assure 'ee, and I had ought to know. 
Nigh varty year, man and bwoy, I 've ben a zheperdin', and 
afore that I wur bird-kepin', when I wur quite a leetel 'un. 
I alius liked bird-kepin', and I 've zhot a zite on 'em wi' th' 
owld king's-arm as maester kep vor 't." 

"What was the best shot you ever made, now ? " 

" Well, zur, I '11 tell 'ee. It wur at th' rooks, and, ef you 
knows about bird-kepin', you minds how keen the rooks be 
at seedin' time, to light and snicker about wher' thaay can 
see arra bit ov a scratch, specially in the mornin's. So I 
casts about in my yead — I haint got much book-larnin', but 
I 've got a yead on m' zhoulders as answers to 't — how to 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 27 

cotch 'em, cos' 'em be aggravatin' birds, plaguey cunnin' let 
'em be never zo lear. One momin' afore light I bucks up a 
bit o' ground right afore the barn ther', and drows a handful 
o' zeed com auver the scratch, and gets inside zo as um 
med n't zee m', and then puts two pipes-full o' powder, and 
a'mwoast all the shot as I 'd got, into the gun, and waits. 
Ai'ter a bit I hears one on 'em a cawin' up above, and then 
down a cums, plump. Th' owld wosbird teks a look at th' 
barn, but both doors was wide open, zo as a' could zee right 
droo. Zo a gevs a caw as tho' 'twur all right (a could n't 
zee I, for a bit o' straw as I 'd got round m') and falls to 
hisself, and, a'most afore you could look, the scratch wur all 
black wi' 'em, scrouging and cawin' together. Then I zets 
up zoftly and teks a long* breath, and zhuts m' eyes, and pulls. 
A went off wi' th' mwost all-fired noise, and kicked I fit to 
bust. Wen I cum to, and zet up in the straw, and could 
look out, ' Lord,' sez I, ' wut ! haint I killed not one on 'em ? ' 
Then I hears a floppeting behind m', and turns round. You 
zee, zur, th' owld king's-arm had took and kicked I right 
round, zo as I wur looking out o' t'other door o' the barn wen 
I cum to." ' 

" yes, shepherd, I dare say." 

" Well, but when you got faced round again to the right 
door what had you done ? " 

" Lord, zur, the ground wur all black wi' 'em, mostly 
dead, but zum on 'em hobblin' about, — more nor dree-score 
on 'em — " 

The shepherd is interrupted by the laughter of the younger 
of his guests. 

" You med b'leeve m' or not, as you plazes, zur." 

" Threescore rooks at a shot. What do you say to that. 



ma am : 



?» 



" 'T wur afore my time, zur, but I never heerd Jonas tell 
it no other waay." 

" Well, it would take a big whale to swallow you, Jonas." 



28 THOMAS HUGHES. 

" Poor owld mother tuk and put zum on 'em into a pie. 
But 'em did yeat terrible runk, — I wun't deny but 'em wur 
terrible runk." 

" So I should think. Let 's see, what 's the time ? Not 
half past seven. How 's the night, shepherd ? " 

The shepherd gets up and goes to the door. 

Johnny, in a low voice to Herbert, " I know all about 
where we are now, — only about a mile and a half from 
home. It 's the great barn we used to call the haunted 
barn." 

*' "What was it haunted with ? " 

" Cats ; I '11 tell you the story presently. I don't want to 
talk, or Jonas might recognize me." 

" Not he. Well, what do you make of the night, shep- 
herd?" 

" 'T is clearin' off, zur. 'T will be vine enuff d'rectly." 

" Did you ever see any ghosts in the barn ? " 

" Haw ! haw ! Noa, zur. Ther' beant no bogles up here ; 
thaay keps down below, thaay does." 

" Well, we may as well be getting ready for a start." So 
they got up, put on their coats, shouldered their knapsacks, 
and, having astonished Jonas's wife by a present of five shil- 
lings to buy fuel with, stepped out, accompanied by Jonas. 

The last flakes of the snow-storm were falling, and the 
moon shone out keen and white, and the air felt deliciously 
keen and fresh after Jonas's little close hole of a kitchen. 

" How splendid 1 " said Herbert, as they paused before the 
cottage door. " Hark ! don't I hear bells ? " 

" Zartin zhure. Thaay be Avenly Christmas bells, zur, a 
ringin' for Squire Kendrick's Ashen Fagot. Thaay '11 be 
lightin' he up zmartish, I '11 war'nd." 

" We can go straight across to Avenly, I suppose." 

" Ees, zur, straight as you plaazes. Zo you be gwine to 
Avenly ? " 

" Yes, I hope so." 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 29 

" Did 'ce ever heer o' th' Squire's zon as runned awaay 
vrom whoam out in thaay forrin parts, zur ? " 

" I never met any one who went by that name. So the 
Squire's son ran away from home ? " 

" Ees a did, mwoar' nor a year ago." 

" How was that ? " 

" Well, I d' wont kneow th' rights on 't, zur. I 've heerd 
as a wur zo nat'rally grounded wi' pride and obs'tncy a 
would n't tek a word vrom 's own vather. Then a' spent a 
zite o' money, I heerd, at college. Hows'mever, won daay, 
th' Squire spoke zharper n' usual to 'n, and a went aff then 
and ther. A wa' n't a bad haart neither ; that I 'ool zaay 
var 'n. I 've a zeed un about wi' Tummus scoors o' times ; 
Tummus be the Squire's zhepherd, and wur main vond 
ov 'n. But a 'd got a zart o' prodigalish waay wi' un as 
did n't bode no good." 

" Well, shepherd, I hope he '11 come to his senses and get 
back home soon." 

" I wishes a med, zur. For th' Squire hev never rightly 
held up s' yead sence he bin gone ; nor madam neither. And 
there a'n't a better maester nor missus in th' whole country 
zide. I kneows I wishes I 'd been barn on he's lands." 

" Well, good by, shepherd. I hope we may meet again 
before long." 

" I dwon't care how zoon, zur. But shall I gwo 'lang with 
'ee a bit, to show 'ee th' waay ? " 

" No, thanks, we shall do famously ; good night." 

So they shook the horny hand of their host, and went off 
across the glittering snow in the still moonlight towards 
Avenly dip, with the Christmas chime coming up from the 
little hamlet, and speaking to open hearts, of the child that 
was bom, and the shepherds that kept their flocks, in a far 
land, near twenty centuries ago. 



30 THOMAS HUGHES. 



CHAPTEK IV. 

" Let th' adze 'bide, Maester Dick ; let tli' adze 'bide, I 
tell 'ee. Dal'd if I dwon't gev thee the stick, ef thee gwoes 
an spwilin' the tools, aal as I can zaay." 

Dick Kendrick, to whom this objurgation was addressed 
in the outhouse next the stable of Avenly Manor-House, 
which was used for a carpenter's shop, dropped the forbidden 
adze for the moment. Moses Ockle, the carpenter, his in- 
terlocutor, went on with his work for some time with one 
eye on the adze, but presently relaxed his vigilance, and 
Dick had hold of the adze again, and was chipping away at 
a tough log of timber, " before a body could wink a'mwoast," 
as his victim described it. The second or third chink of the 
adze, however, recalled Moses to the state of affairs, and, 
dropping the saw he was using, he caught up the nearest 
switch he could lay hands on, and made at Dick, who bolted 
behind the big bench which stood in the middle of the shop, 
meaning to parley. This afforded him protection for the 
moment, but, seeing that Moses was in earnest, and would 
infallibly reach him over the bench, he broke cover, and 
made for the open door, upsetting, on his way, the cross- 
trees at which the pursuer had been working, and just escap- 
ing a swingeing blow, which the enraged carpenter, his shins 
smarting from contact with the over-set cross-trees, aimed at 
him, and which fell on the door-post. 

" Od, drattle th' young carcass," growled Moses, as he 
gathered up liis work and went on with it ; " thee bist he 
very moral o' thy brother. He wur transpworted, or zum- 
mat equal to 't, and thou 'It cum to the gallus, zhure as my 
neam 's Moses." 

" Well, Moses," said William Kendrick, entering a few 
minutes afterwards, " you 're making the Ashen Fagot for 
to-night, arn't you ? " 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 31 

« Ees, Maester Willum." 

" Will you please make a smaller one, too ? You '11 be 
glad, I know, to hear that we have had news of my brother. 
So papa and ndamma say the children may have a fagot 
before the supper begins." 

" That I 'ool, Maester Willum. And how many hoops '11 
'ee hev to un ? " 

" O, four or five, Moses." 

" Zaay arf a dozen, zur. But I be mazin' glad to hear 
about th' young squire. And wher be un, then, Maester 
Willum, make zo bowld, and wut be un doin' ov ? " 

" He is in Australia, right on the other side of the world, 
Moses. And he is very well, and doing capitally. He is a 
sort of head man to a great sheep farmer there." 

" Th' young squire a zhepperdin ! Maester William ? " 

" Yes, Moses, and why not ? The sheep farmers are the 
great people. I should like nothing better than to go out 
myself, and make my own way there. But can't you let me 
help you ? I should so like to help make the Ashen Fagots 
for to-night." 

Moses was nothing loath. Willie was a very different style 
of boy from Dick, and so the two worked on together, Moses 
cutting ash-poles for the two fagots, and Willie under his 
direction preparing the hazel-rods for the hoops. 

" Why don't you make the hoops of ash, too, Moses ? " 

" 'Cause hazel burns slawer, and zo howlds th' vagot to- 
gether langer." 

By the time it was dusk they had finished binding the two 
fagots ; one a monster, some six feet long, with about a 
dozen hazel hoops round him, the other a miniature one 
of half the size. Willie marched off in triumph with the 
smaller, leaving the carpenter to follow with the other when 
he had tidied up the place a bit, which he did, muttering to 
himself: " And zo th' young squire be zhepperdin, be un ? 
Ef a' had 's desarvins, a 'd be kepin' pegs, like he in Scrip- 



32 THOMAS HUGHES. 

tur, and a fillin' ov 's belly wi' th' husks as tli' zwine did 
yet." . 

Willie and the carpenter deposited their burdens in a huge 
lofty room at one end of the house, away from the sitting- 
rooms. It was called the kitchen, but seldom used for that 
purpose, a smaller and more central room having succeeded 
it. It had now become more a servants' hall, but its special 
vocation, and one for which it was eminently qualified, was 
that of receiving the periodical gatherings at harvest homes, 
Ashen Fagot nights, and such occasions, when the Ken- 
dricks made entertainment for their vassals. 

The chief feature in the room was the fireplace, which 
cannot jbe better described than in the homely words of a 
rhymer of the country : — 

" My veather's vires wur mead o' logs 
0' cleft 'ood down upon the dogs, 
In our girt vire-pleace, zo wide 
As you med draw a cart inzide, 
An big an little med zet down 
On boath zides, an avore, an all rown; 
An up in corner thaay did hitch 
The zaalt box on the bacon vlitch ; 
An, when I wur a zettin, I 
Could zee aal up into the sky 
An watch the zmoke gwo vrom the vire 
Aal up an out at un, an higher; 
An ther' wur beacon upon rack, 
An plates to yet it upon tack ; 
An rown the walls were yarbs, stowd 
In peapern bags, an blathers bio wed ; 
An jest above the clavey boord 
Were vather's gun, an zpurs, an zoord 5 
An ther' were ther' our gertest pride, 
The zettle by the vire zide." 

This room was now, under the hands of two maids, being 
prepared for the evening's festivities, while the children ran 
in and out, helping, as they delighted to think. A bright fire 
crackled already on the dogs, which were in due time to 
receive the Ashen Fa^^ots ; all the furniture was moved 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 33 

except the great table which ran along one side. There 
was plenty of Christmas, in the shape of holly and ivy, over 
the fireplace and on the walls, and a bunch of mistletoe hang- 
ing from a rack in the middle of the ceiling. The Ashen 
¥"agot8 were duly deposited in a comer of the great fire- 
place, and by five o'clock, when the maids and children went 
off to tea, all was ready. The kitchen was left, winking 
away in the cosey firelight, for the fairies, if they pleased, to 
come in and take their pastime on the clean sanded floor. 
Meantime, the sole occupants were two robins, who seemed 
to be thoroughly satisfied with the asylum which they had 
hit upon for their Christmas Eve, and chirped to one an- 
other, as they flitted about, and peered with their small bright 
eyes into every corner, discoursing, no doubt, of how un- 
pleasant the snow was becoming outside, and what fools their 
neighbors, the wrens and sparrows, were, not to avail them- 
selves of such comfortable quarters, before they went up to 
perch for the night on the bacon rack. 

The robins, no doubt, soon began to see reasons for recon- 
sidering their opinions, when, at about six o'clock, the door 
which led from the house opened, and Clara, Bobby, and 
Maggie, and the party of children they had been allowed to 
ask to tea, rushed into the room, followed by Mabel and her 
friend the clergyman's daughter, who brought her little 
nephews, and Miss Smith. 

After the first rush round the great room, all so nicely 
cleared for a good romp, had been duly executed by the 
cliildren, and candles had been lighted, there was a call at 
once for the Ashen Fagot. In fact, Bobby and the vicar's 
eldest grandson had seized on it, and were in the act of 
putting it on the dogs, when Mabel suggested that it would 
be burnt out too soon if they lighted it at once. 

" yes, let us have a play first," said Clara ; " and then 
we will sit down and make forfeits, or Mabel will tell us a 
story, and then we can have the fagot." 
3 



34 THOMAS HUGHES. 

" And Aunt Nellie will sing us a song, won't you ? one 
we can all join in ? " said the vicar's grandson. 

"0 yes, Walter, presently, when you are all tired of 
play." And so to play they went vigorously. Blind-man's- 
buff, hunt-the-slipper, and the post-office, in which latter 
game Clara distinguished herself, succeeded one another 
rapidly ; and the circle was constantly increased by the 
arrival of one after another of the servants, — dairy-maid, 
laundry-maid, house-maid, nurse-maid, &c. The Ashen Fag- 
ot was put on in triumph, and blazed and crackled to the 
complete satisfaction of the young ones. Then a great dish 
came in for snap-dragon, and Bobby and his friend were 
soon distinguishing themselves by dashing their hands 
bravely into the burning brandy, and bringing out the 
raisins for their favorites amongst the group of girls. 
When all the raisins had been extracted and eaten, and 
the salt had been duly thrown into the burning spirit, and 
everybody had looked sufficiently green and cadaverous, a 
cry for forfeits arose. So the party sat down round Mabel 
on benches brought out from under the table, and Mabel 
began, — 

" The first day of Christmas my true love sent to me a partridge and a 
pear-tree ; 

The second day of Christmas my true love sent to me two turtle-doves, 
a partridge, and a pear-tree ; 

The third day of Christmas my true love sent to me three fat hens, two 
turtle-doves, a partridge, and a pear-tree ; 

The fourth day of Christmas my true love sent to me four ducks quack- 
ing, three fat hens, two turtle-doves, a partridge, and a pear-tree ; 

The fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me five hares running, 
four ducks quacking, three fat hens, two turtle-doves, a par- 
tridge, and a pear-tree." 

And so on. Each day was taken up and repeated all round ; 
and for every breakdown (except by little Maggie, who 
struggled with desperately earnest round eyes to follow the 
rest correctly, but with very comical results), the player 
who made the slip was duly noted down by Mabel for a 
forfeit. 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 35 

In the middle of the game, the door which opened to the 
garden flew open, and Willie and Dick arrived on the scene 
of action, with — 

" Now then, make room, here are the mummers ! " 
" 0, the mummers, the mummers ! hurrah ! " chorused 
the infantry, as they withdrew, under Mabel and Nelly's 
wing, to the side and end of the kitchen. St. George and 
his adversary were then called by the two boys, who stood 
by the door, as masters of the ceremonies. They came in, 
shaking the snow from their queer attempts at costume, 
consisting of helmets, in shape very like fool's-caps, of dif- 
ferent-colored paper, and scraps of ribbon and colored cloth 
or cotton sewn on to their smock-frocks. They marched 
round after one another, repeating their introductory verses 
in a queer nasal singsong, and then fell to single combat 
with their wooden swords, which soon resulted in the dis- 
comfiture of St. George. His adversary, being of a noble 
temper, now calls for the doctor. 

" Doctor, doctor, plaay thy part ; 
St. Gaarge be wounded to the heart: 
Doctor, doctor, come and see ; 
St. Gaarge be wounded in the knee." 

The ridiculous figure called the doctor answers the ap- 
peal, entering with — 

" Here curas I, a ten pound doctor; 
Ten pound is my fee 5 
But, sence thee bist a vriend o' mine, 
I '11 tek but vive vrom thee." 

And so it goes on, with much more ridiculous doggerel, but 
of absorbing interest to little Maggie, and all the younger 
portion of the audience. 

" Well, what were you playing at when we came in ? " 
said Willie, as the mummers went off, after getting the ac- 
customed gratuity. 

" Forfeits," said Mabel. " Will you play ? Our fagot is 
nearly out, so you won't have much of it." 



36 THOMAS HUGHES. 

" Hullo ? look, here 's a robin ; what fun ! " said Dick, 
shying his cap at one of the robins, who, from his perch on 
the rack, was contemplating the doings of mankind, with his 
head on one side, and thinking probably what fools they 
must be, to be carrying on their unmeaning games, instead 
of sleeping and letting him sleep. 

Dick had three or four shots with his cap at the birds, 
before Mabel, backed by Willie, to whom she appealed, 
could make him leave them alone. Then they took to for- 
feits again ; and Dick, who was absolute lord of misrule in 
the place, soon made it too uproarious. Whenever it came 
to his turn to declare a forfeit (and he constantly managed 
that it should do so, by making horrible faces, and otherwise 
interrupting the one whose turn it was to repeat), he played 
some half-malicious prank. At last, having caught up the 
dairy-maid, he declared her forfeit " clencliing hands." 
This operation is performed by the caller and payer of the 
forfeit standing up, and joining their hands with the fingers 
laced, when the gentleman, by extending his arms, brings 
the lady's face close up to his own, and kisses her. In the 
present case, the dairy-maid, being full as strong as Master 
Dick, kept him nearly at arms' length ; but the attempt 
annoyed Mabel, who put a stop to the game. Whereupon 
Dick took himself off till supper-time, declaring them slow. 

They were getting rather tired, and the embers of the 
fagot were all red-hot and nearly consumed ; so they made 
a circle round, and the maids brought some logs and put 
them on. 

" Now, Aunt Nelly, you must sing us a song." 

" yes, the one about the sisters, and the cherry with- 
out a stone, please," said Bobby. 

" Very well. Mabel, you will take the questions. And, 
mind, you must all sing the chorus." 

" I had four sisters lived over the sea, 
Parra marra dictum domine ; 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 37 

They each sent a Christmas present to me, 
Partum qnartum paradise templum, 
Parra marra dictum domine. 
The first sent a cherry without a stone, 

Parra marra dictum domine ; 
The second sent a bird without a bone, 

Partum quartum paradise templum, &c. 
The third sent a blanket without a thread, 

Parra marra dictum domine: 
The fourth sent a book no man could read, 
Partum quartum paradise templum, &c. 
How could it be a cherry without a stone ? 

Parra marra dictum domine ; 
How could it be a bird without a bone? 

Partum quartum paradise templum, &c. 
How could it be a blanket without a thread ? 

Parra marra dictum domine ; 
How could it be a book no man could read ? 

Partum quartum paradise templum, &c. 
When the cherry 's in the bud it has no stone, 

Parra marra dictum domine ; 
When the bird 's in the egg it has no bone, 
Partum quartum paradise templum, &c. 
When the blanket 's in the fleece it has no thread, 

Parra marra dictum domine ; 
When the book 's in the press no man can read, 
Partum quartum paradise templum, 
Parra marra dictum domine." 

The song and chorus delighted the children; and then 
Mabel was called on for her story, which would, no doubt, 
fascinate readers as much as it did her audience round the 
remains of the ashen fagot, were there space to give it. 
And now it was getting near eight o'clock, the cliimes were 
ringing out, and it was time to prepare the kitchen for the 
supper of the grown-up folk. Nelly and her charge with- 
drew through the house, and the other children dispersed. 
Mabel remained to give an eye to the supper arrangements. 
Presently Bobby and Maggie, who had not yet been carried 
off, ran up and pulled her gown. 

" Mabel, come and look, do come and look ! " 

« What is it, Bobby ? " 



38 THOMAS HUGHES. 

" 0, two great hairy faces, like the giants in our picture- 
book!" 

" Where ? What do you mean, Bobby ? " 

" Here, at the window. They frightened Maggie so." 

" O yes, that they did," said Maggie, holding on to her 
sister's gown. " You ain't afraid, Mabel ? " 

" No, dear ; come along." So she went to the window, 
which looked out on the garden, and which she had opened 
a few minutes before to freshen the room. 

" Why, Bobby, you must have fancied it all." 

" No, no ; did n't we see two great hairy faces, such big 
ones, looking in ? " 

"O yes, Mabel." 

Mabel looked out carefully amongst the shrubs. The 
moon and snow made it almost as light as day, except just 
in the shadow of the house ; but she could see nothing. 

" Well, Bobby, you see they 've run away. They 
could n't get through these bars at any rate ; so we 're quite 
safe. Hark ! there are the school-children, singing a carol 
at papa's window. Come along ; you can go and hear them, 
and say good-night to papa." And so Mabel and the chil- 
dren left the kitchen. 

7p Tfr ^ Tp* 

" Nearly caught, eh, Johnny ? " whispered the elder of 
our travellers, as the two drew themselves up in the shadow 
of the house, behind a laurel. " Who was the pretty little 
bright-eyed girl ? " 

"My little sister, Maggie." 

"And the boy?" 

" My youngest brother. Bob." 

" And the tall girl they ran up to ? " 

"My eldest sister, Mabel." 

" You 're a lucky dog. Hark ! what 's that ? " 

" The school-children, singing a carol before the house." 

They listened while the young voices sang the grand old 
carol, — 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 39 

" While shepherds kept their flocks by night." 

Neither spoke for some seconds after the voices ceased. 

" What are you going to do, Johnny," Herbert said, gen- 
tly, at last. 

" 0, 1 don't quite know yet ; I am so confused still. You 
don't mind waiting a little ? " 

"Not a bit. As long as you please, so that we get 
housed by bedtime." 

" Here come the people to ' Ashen Fagot,' stand back." 

Vff Tfi 7^ vp 

" Now, papa. They have done supper, and Dick and I 
have put the Ashen Fagot on, and it's just blazing up. 
You'll come in and wish them a merry Christmas, won't 
you?" 

Mr. Kendrick rose from his chair in the parlor, where 
he was sitting with his wife and Mabel, and prepared to go 
with Willie. 

" But the vicar is n't come," he said ; " he would like to 
go in with me and say a few words to them." 

" O John, I '11 wait for the vicar and Nelly, and bring 
them in for a few minutes when they come." 

So Mr. Kendrick and Mabel went with Willie back to 
the kitchen, where the Ashen Fagot was already crackling 
and roaring away merrily on the dogs. The women, who 
had supped with their husbands and brothers, were seated 
in the chimney-comer, and round one side of the fire on 
benches, leaving the space clear between the fire and the 
long table. At the upper end of the table, the bailiff, the 
carpenter, the parish clerk, and the wheelwright were 
seated, and the farm-laborers, men and boys, below. Ma- 
bel joined the women, while her father took the top of the 
table ; the men all rising till he had taken his seat, with 
Willie by his side. Dick was seated at liis ease next to the 
bailiff, on the opposite side from Moses, the carpenter. 

There were several large copper jugs on the table, out of 
one of which Mr. Kendrick filled a horn of beer. 



40 , THOMAS HUGHES. 

" Here 's a merrv Christmas to you all," he said, drinking, 
" and I hope you 've enjoyed yourselves to-night ? " 

" Ees, ees, that us hev'," chorused the men, and, at a sign 

from the bailiff, Moses, the carpenter, cleared his throat and 

sang : — 

" Here 's a health unto our maester, 
Th' vounder ov this veast ; 
I haups to God wi' aal my heart, 
His sowl in heav'n may rest, 
And ael his works med prawsper, 
Wutever he teks in hand, 
Vor we are ael his zarvents, 
And ael at his command. 

CHORUS. 

" Then drenk, bwoys, drenk, 
And mind you do not spill ; 
Vor, ef you do, you must drenk two, 
Vor 'tis our maester's will." 

" Your health, zur, and missus's, and ael th' fam'ly, and a 
merry Christmas to ee ael, and many ov 'em ! " followed 
this poetical greeting, which was sung vociferously, the 
words being those of an old harvest-home song, well known 
for generations to all the inhabitants of Avenly. 

" Now you can light your pipes, and make the most of 
your time ; the Ashen Fagot waits for nobody." 

The lighting up of pipes soon followed this permission ; 
and Mr. Kendrick, after chatting for a minute or two to the 
men nearest him, was just getting up to speak, when the 
lowest of the hazel bonds of the Ashen Fagot burst. 

" A bond ! a bond ! drenk to th' bond ! " said several voices. 
The bailiff looked at his master, who seated himself at once. 

" No, no, I can wait," he said ; " keep to your custom. A 
sip and a song for every bond." 

This saying was received with enthusiasm, and a call on 
Muster Hockle followed. The carpenter seemed the favor- 
ite performer. " Gie 's th' howl's disaster, Maester Hockle," 
suggested the bailiff. 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 41 

" I 've often heard my gram 'mer tell 
Of a peart young owl, as ael the day 
In a nook ov the paason's barn did dwell, 
In hidlock blinkin' the time away. 

" But, zo zoon as ever the zun were zet, 
A poachin' away like mad went he, 
And once his desarvings he did get, 
As aal o' you shall presently zee. 

" A vlod vor miles auver hill and dale, 

And a caddled the mice in many a vield ; 
For ael o' you as heers this tale 
Do know as the weakest must alius yield. 

" At last a hunted zo vur away 

That the zun cum peepmg auver the hills. 
And the birds waked up and did un espy, 
And wur ael in a churm az um whetted their bills. 

" ' Gwo at un, my b woys,' the missel-dresh cries ; 

' A vrightened my mate, and her eggs be ael addled ' ; 

And the yuckle did scraam, ' Let us peck out his eyes; 

Zich a girt mouchin' wosbird deserves to be caddled.' 

" Thaay dreshed un long, and thaay dreshed un zore ; 
Thaay dreshed un and tar ael the dowl vrom his yead, 
And thaay vollured un whoam unto the barn dwoor. 
And ther' thaay left un purty nigh dead. 

MORAL. 

" Now, ael you young men as loves ramblin' o' night, 
Be plazed from this story to take timely wamin', 
Vor ther' med be them as ud not thenk it right 
If you chances to get auvertuk by the marnin'." 

Any one who had thought of looking at the garden win- 
dow during Moses's song would have been able to confirm 
the story of little Maggie on all points, except as to the 
size of the two faces which peered through the window- 
bars. They might easily have fancied that the fleshy em- 
bodiments of some two antagonist Christmas principles 
were watching the Ashen Fagot supper from without ; so 
marked was the contrast between the merry, curious look of 



42: THOMAS HUGHES. 

the lighter, and the painful tension of muscles and hunger- 
ing anxiety of the darker face. 

" Lawk ! do 'ee look, Miss Mabel. Zhure as vate I zeed 
zummat at th' winder," whispered Goody Ockle, the car- 
'penter's wife, to Miss Kendrick. 

Mabel glanced at the window a little nervously, and 
thought she detected figures disappearing ; but her father 
had now risen to speak to his men, and she turned to listen. 

" You all know," he said^ with his homely "Wiltshire 
manner, which gave him such a hold over the people who 
lived round him, — " you know well, after all these years 
we have Kved side by side as good neighbors, how much I 
enjoy meeting you here at such times as this. For five and 
twenty years now we have met here, and had our merry- 
makings, our harvest-homes, and Ashen Fagot nights, 
through bad times and good times. Well, we 've had good 
times lately in field and fold, and I hope we 're all thankful 
for them, and laying by something against hard times, which 
will be sure to come back again, sooner or later, — remem- 
ber that. When they come, I hope we shall all pull togeth- 
er as we have done before ; but there 's nothing like being a 
little before the world. The only one of all those twenty- 
five Ashen Fagots which I have n't seen burnt with you 
was the last one. You all know why I was n't with you. 
It had pleased God to send me a very fearful trial last year, 
and I had n't the heart to come among you as usual. I 
know how pleased you will all be to hear that I have had 
good news to-day from the other side of the world, — good 
news of Master John." Here his voice faltered ; and when 
the rough murmurs of sympathy had subsided a little, he 
changed the subject abruptly, and went on : " It has always 
been a source of great pride to me, and to our good vicar, 
whom we all love as an old friend, though he has only been 
with us four years or so," (the vicar, who had just entered, 
with Mrs. Kendrick on his arm, followed by his daughter, 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 43 

was hailed by a burst of applause, and stood benevolently 
wondering through his spectacles what it could be all about,) 
"we are very proud to think how little drunkenness we 
have in this parish. I 'm sure you '11 all take a pride, and 
you particularly, boys," (the boys at the end of the table be- 
came specially attentive,) "in keeping up our good name. 
* Merry and wise,' is our Avenly motto. You will be sure 
to go right if you will only mind your mothers and wives, 
whom I am always delighted to welcome here with you, and 
who, mind, ought always to be with you at such times. 
Mind, boys, and men too, there 's no honest mirth where 
wives and daughters can't come. There 's one more word, 
which, perhaps, would come better from the vicar than from 
me ; but as he '11 have his turn to-morrow in the pulpit, I 
may just touch upon his ground now. This ' Ashen Fagot ' 
night, you know, is the night of peace and good-will of all 
the year. So, if any of you have had fallings-out with 
your neighbors, or in your families, now 's the time to set 
them all right. Don't let the last bond of the fagot burst 
before we have made all our hearts clean and whole with 
all men this Christmas eve. I see there 's another bond 
just going to burst; so I shall only wish you all again a 
very merry Christmas." 

The bond burst almost before Mr. Kendrick sat down, but 
not a soul in the room noticed it. Every eye was turned to 
the opposite side of the room. Her father's look as he spoke, 
and some of liis words, had touched Mabel very deeply. She 
could scarcely keep from bursting into tears. The warmth 
of the great fagot and the smell of the smoke gave her a 
choking feeling, which she found it every moment more diffi- 
cult to struggle against. So she had glided across to the 
opposite door, and, opening it a little, stood by it listening. 
Just as Mr. Kendrick finished, she stepped out for a breath 
of fresh air, to look at the pure moonlight, and recover her- 
self, when she heard her name whispered close by. She 



44 THOMAS HUGHES. 

turned with a start, and tlie next moment found herself in 
the arms of a man. Altogether, the excitement of the day 
and the evening, with this last shock at the end of all, proved 
too much for her, and she fairly fainted away. 

" Good God, Herbert ! what am I to do ? Here 's Mabel 
fainting ! " 

" Why the deuce did you frighten her, then ? Come, 
bring her in," and, so saying, Herbert pushed the door open. 
The astonishment of the company vented itself first in a sort 
of gasp ; Mr. Kendrick turned shai'ply round, following the 
universal stare, and beheld one beai'ded stranger in front, 
standing on his kitchen floor, with a big stick in his hand, 
and his daughter in the arms of another just behind him. 
He sprang to his feet, as did all the other men, but not 
before Mrs. Kendrick had rushed across the kitchen, cry- 
ing,— 

" Mabel, dearest, what is it ? What have you done to my 
child ? " 

" Mother, dear mother ! don't you know me ? " 

" Johnny ! God, is it Johnny ? " and now the mother 
was on his neck, sobbing hysterically ; and the whole of the 
women thronged round them, and murmurs of " Master 
John ! " " 'T is the young squire, zhure enough ! " " Massy, 
how a be grawed," and such like, passed round the men. 

" Had n't you better stand back, and give the young lady 
room to come round ? " said Herbert. 

Mr. Kendrick now pressed forward with blanched face 
through the crowd. The son could only stretch out his 
hand, with, " Dear father, you have forgiven me ? " 

John Kendrick the elder seized and grasped it twice, but 
could not speak. He was not the man to give way in public, 
but his bowels yearned to his son, and he fled away to his 
chamber to weep there. 

Herbert was looking on, much moved, weighing within 
himself whether he could be of any use, when his eye caught 



THE ASHEN FAGOT. 45 

sight of the vicar, making horrible gulping faces, and wiping 
his spectacles. He looked anxiously at him for a. moment, 
and then, springing across, seized his hand and began shak- 
ing it furiously. 

" Why, Mr. Ward, Mr. Ward, don't you know me ? " 

" Eh, oh ! what ? no ! Wlio are you ? " replied the vicar, 
shaking away, however, with great good-will, and glad to find 
an outlet for his feelings. 

" Why, Herbert Upton of course. Who should I be ? " 

" What, Herbert ! God bless me ! No, it can't be. Yes, 
I see. My dear boy, what brings you here ? Where have 
you been ? Why have n't you written ? " 

" So I have, often, some years back." 

" What, written ? I Ve never had the letters." 

"And Nelly?" 

" 0, here she is, somewhere. Nelly, where are you ? We 
often talk of you and old times." 

And now there was like to be another catastrophe calling 
for salts and cold water, as Herbert and Nelly met again 
after six years' parting. He had left her a slip of a girl, 
and found her a fine young woman. She had last seen 
him a stripling of twenty, and he stood there now a great- 
bearded man. 

Readers must picture to themselves the rest of the scene, 
— how the troubled groups divided themselves again ; how 
the Ashen Fagot revelry went on in the kitchen, every bond 
that had burst during the interruption receiving due posthu- 
mous honors ; how the reputation of Avenly for strict sobri- 
ety was somewhat shaken that night, though nothing was said 
about it by squire or vicar ; how, at the supper in the parlor, 
to which no one but Herbert and Dick did any justice, the 
story of Herbert's meeting with Johnny half-starved m the 
streets of Sydney, and taking him into his employment, of 
their defence of their wagon and beasts against bushrangers, 
of the lucky accident which enabled Herbert to come home, 



46 THOMAS HUGHES. 

was told by fits and starts in answer to a thousand ques- 
tions. 

It was almost midnight before they broke up, and then 
Mr. Kendrick asked the vicar to read to them, and took 
down his big Bible. And the old vicar, peering through his 
spectacles, turned to the 15th chapter of St. Luke, and read 
it ; and as the well-known words were heard again, there 
was no dry eye in the parlor, except the incorrigible Dick's. 

Herbert Upton escorted the vicar and Nelly home ; and 
on the next Sunday the banns of Herbert Upton, of New 
South Wales, and Eleanor Ward, of Avenly, were duly 
published for the first time in the parish church. Herbert 
established himself for the winter at the vicarage, with three 
good hunters, which stood in Mr. Kendrick's capacious sta- 
bles. The worthy villagers of Avenly will long remember 
and talk over the Ashen Fagot night when the young 
squire came home again. 



V' 





CONTENTMENT. 

By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

" Man wants but little here below." 

LITTLE I ask ; my wants are few ; 
I only wish a hut of stone, 
(A very 'plain brown stone will do,) 
That I may call my own ; — 
And close at hand is such a one, 
In yonder street that fronts the sun. 

Plain food is quite enough for me ; 

Three courses are as good as ten ; — • 
If Nature can subsist on three, 

Thank Heaven for three. Amen ! 
I always thought cold victual nice ; — 
My choice would be vanilla-ice. 

I care not much for gold or land ; — 

Give me a mortgage here and there, — 
Some good bank-stock, — some note of hand, 

Or trifling railroad share, — 
I only ask that Fortune send 
A little more than I shall spend. 

Honors are silly toys, I know, 
And titles are but empty names ; 



48 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

I would, perhaps, be Plenipo, — 
But only near St. James ; 
I 'm very sure I should not care 
To fill our Gubemator's chair. 

Jewels are bawbles ; 't is a sin 

To care for such unfruitful things ; — 
One good-sized diamond in a pin, — 

Some, not so large, in rings, — 
A ruby, and a pearl, or so. 
Will do for me ; — I laugh at show. 

My dames should dress in cheap attire ; 

(Good, heavy silks are never dear ;) — 
I own perhaps I might desire 

Some shawls of true Cashmere, — 
Some marrowy crapes of China silk. 
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. 

I would not have the horse I drive 

So fast that folks must stop and stare ; 
An easy gait — two, forty-five — 

Suits me ; I do not care ; — 
Perhaps, for just a single spurt, 
Some seconds less would do no hurt. 

Of pictures, I should like to own 

Titians and Raphaels three or four, — 
I love so much their style and tone, — 

One Turner, and no more, 
(A landscape, — foreground golden dirt^ - 
The sunshine painted with a squirt.) 

Of books but few, — some fifty score 
For daily use, and bound for wear ; 



CONTENTMENT. 49 

The rest upon an upper floor ; — 

Some little luxury there 
Of red morocco's gilded gleam, 
And vellum rich as country cream. 

Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as these, 

Which others often show for pride, 
/value for their power to please. 

And selfish churls deride ; — 
One Stradivarius, I confess, 
Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess. 

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, 
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool ; — 
Shall not carved tables serve my turn, 

But all must be of buhl ? 
Give grasping pomp its double share, — 
I ask but one recumbent chair. 

Thus humble let me live and die, 

Nor long for Midas' golden touch ; 
If Heaven more generous gifts deny, 
I shall not miss them much, — 
Too grateful for the blessing lent 
Of simple tastes and mind content ! 



LITTLE SCHOLARS 



By anna THACKERAY. 



YESTERDAY morning, as I was walking up a street 
in Pimlico, I came upon a crowd of little persons issu- 
ing from a narrow alley. Ever so many little people there 
were streaming through a wicket ; running children, shouting 
children, loitering children, chattering children, and children 
spimiing tops by the way, so that the whole street was 
awakened by the pleasant childish clatter. As I stand for 
an instant to see the procession go by, one little girl pops 
me an impromptu courtesy, at which another from a distant 
quarter, not behindhand in politeness, pops me another ; and 
presently quite an irregular little volley of courtesyings goes 
off in every direction. Then I blandly inquire if school is 
over ? and if there is anybody left in the house ? A little 
brown-eyes nods her head, and says, " There 's a great many 
people left in the house." And so there are, sure enough, 
as I find when I get in. 

Down a narrow yard, with the workshops on one side and 
the schools on the other, in at a little door which leads into 
a big room where there are rafters, maps hanging on the 
walls, and remarks in immense letters, such as, " Coffee 
IS GOOD FOR MY BREAKFAST," and pictures of useful 
things, with the well-thumbed story underneath ; a stove in 
the middle of the room ; a paper hanging up on the door 
with the names of the teachers ; and everywhere wooden 



LITTLE SCHOLARS. 51 

benches and tables, made low and small for little legs and 
arms. 

"Well, the school-room is quite empty and silent now, and 
the little turmoil has poured eagerly out at the door. It is 
twelve o'clock, the sun is shining in the court, and some- 
thing better than schooling is going on in the kitchen yon- 
der. Who cares now where coffee comes from ? or which 
are the chief cities in Europe ? or in what year Stephen 
came to the throne ? For is not twelve o'clock dinner-time 
with all sensible people ? and what periods of history, what 
future aspirations, what distant events are as important to 
us — grown-up folks, and children, too — as this pleasant 
daily recurring one ? 

The kind, motherly schoolmistress who brought me in, 
tells me that for a shilling half a dozen little boys and girls 
can be treated to a wholesome meal. I wonder if it smells 
as good to them as it does to me, when I pull my shilling 
out of my pocket. The food costs more tljan twopence, 
but there is a fund to which people subscribe, and with its 
help the kitchen cooks all through the whiter months. 

All the children seem very fond of the good Mrs. K . 

As we leave the school-room, one little thing comes up cry- 
ing, and clinging to her, " A boy has been and 'it me ! " 
But when the mistress says, " Well, never mind, you shall 
have your dinner," the child is instantly consoled ; " and 
you, and you, and you," she continues ; but this selection is 
too heart-rending; and with the help of another lucky 
shilling, nobody present is left out. I remember particularly 
a lank child, with great black eyes and fuzzy hair, and a 
pinched gray face, who stood leaning against a wall in the 
sun : once, in the Pontine Mai'shes, yeai's ago, I remember 
seeing such another figure. " That poor tiling is seven- 
teen," says IMrs. K . " She sometimes loiters here all 

day long ; she has no mother : and she often comes and tells 
me her father is so drunk she dare not go home. I always 
give her a dinner when I can. This is the kitchen." 



52 ANNA THACKERAY. 

The kitchen is a delightful little clean-scrubbed place, with 
rice pudding baking in the oven, and a young mistress, and 
a big girl, busy bringing in great caldrons full of the mutton- 
broth I have been scenting all this time. It is a fresh, 
honest, hungry smell, quite different from that unwholesome 
compound of fry and sauce, and hot, pungent spice, and stew 
and mess, which comes steaming up, some seven hours later, 
into our dining-rooms, from the reeking kitchens below. 
Here a poor woman is waiting, with a jug and a round- 
eyed baby. The mistress tells me the people in the neigh- 
borhood are too glad to buy what is left of the children's 

dimier. " Look what good stuff it is," says Mrs. K , 

and she shows me a bowl full of the jelly to which it turns 
when cold. As the two girls come stepping through the 
sunny doorway, with the smoking jar between them, I 
think Mr. Millais might make a pretty picture of the little 
scene ; but my attention is suddenly distracted by the round- 
eyed baby, who is peering down into the great soup-jug with 
such wide, wide-open eyes, and little hands outstretched, 
such an eager, happy face, that it almost made one laugh, 
and cry too, to see.' The baby must be a favorite, for he is 
served, and goes off in his mother's arms, keeping vigilant 
watch over the jug, while four or five other jugs and women 
are waiting still in the next room. Then into rows of little 
yellow basins our mistress pours the broth, and we now go 
in to see the company in the dining-hall, waiting for its 
banquet. Ah me ! but it is a pleasanter sighfe to see than 
any company in all the land. Somehow, as the children 
say grace, I feel as if there was indeed a blessing on the 
food ; a blessing winch brings color into these wan cheeks, 
and strength and warmth into these wasted little limbs. 
Meanwhile the expectant company is growing father im- 
patient, and is battering the benches with its spoons, and 
tapping neighboring heads as well. There goes a little 
guest, scrambling from his place across the room and back 



LITTLE SCHOLARS. 53 

again. So many are here to-day, that they have not all got 
seats. I see the wan girl still standing against the wall, and 
there is her brother, — a sociable little fellow, all dressed 
in corduroys, — who is making funny faces at me across the 
room, at which some other little boys burst out laughing. 
But the infants on the dolls'-benches, at the other end,, are 
the best fun. There they are — three, four, five years old — 
whispering and chattering, and tumbling over one another. 
Sometimes one infant falls suddenly forward, with its nose 
upon the table, and stops there quite contentedly; some- 
times another disappears entirely under the legs, and is 
tugged up by its neighbors. A certain number of the in- 
fants have their dinner every day, tlie mistress tells me. 

Mrs. has said so, and hers is the kind hand which has 

provided for all these young ones ; while a same kind heart 
has schemed how to shelter, to feed, to clothe, to teach the 
greatest number of these hungry and cold and neglected 
little children. 

As I am replying to the advances of my young friend in 
the corduroys, I suddenly hear a cry of " Ooo ! ooo ! ooo ! — 
noo spoons, — noo spoons, — ooo ! ooo ! ooo ! " and all the 
little hands stretch out eagerly as one of the big girls goes 
by with a paper of shining metal spoons. By this time the 
basins of soup are travelling round, with hunches of home- 
made bread. " The infants are to have pudding first," says 
the mistress, coming forward ; and in a few minutes more 
all the little birds are busy pecking at their bread and pud- 
ding, of wliich they take up very small mouthfuls, in very 
big spoons, and let a good deal slobber down over their 
pinafores. 

One little curly-haii-ed boy, with a very grave face, was 
eating pudding very slowly and solemnly ; so I said to 
him, — 

" Do you like pudding best ? " 

LittJ^ Boy. '• Isss." 



54 ANNA THACKEKAY. 

" And can you read ? " 

Little Boy. " Isss." 

" And write ? " 

Little Boy. " Isss." 

" And have you got a sister ? " 

Little Boy. " Isss." 

" And does she wash your face so nicely ? " 

Little Boy, extra solemn. " No, see is wite a little girl ; 
see is on'y four year old." 

" And how old are you ? " 

Little Boy, with great dignity. " / am fi' year old." 

Then he told me Mrs. Willis " wassed " his face, and he 
brought his sister to school. 

" Wliere is your sister ? " says the mistress, going by. 

But four-years was not forthcoming. 

" I s'pose see has wait home," says the child, and goes on 
with his pudding. 

This little pair are orphans out of the workhouse, Mrs. 
K— — told me. But somebody pays Mrs. Wilhs for their 
keep. 

There was another funny little thing, very small, sitting 
between two bigger boys, to whom I said, — 

" Are you a little boy or a little girl ? " 

" Little dirl," says this baby, quite confidently. 

" No, you ain't," cries the left-hand neighbor, very much 
excited. 

" Yes, she is," says right-hand neighbor. 

And then three or four more join in, each taking a differ- 
ent view of the question. All this time corduroys is still 
grinning and making faces in his corner. I admire his brass 
buttons, upon which three or four more children instantly 
crowd round to look at them. One is a poor little deformed 
fellow, to whom buttons would be of very little use. He is 
in quite worn and ragged clothes : he looks as pale and thin 
almost as that poor girl I fii^st noticed. He has no mother ; 



LITTLE SCHOLARS. 55 

he and his brother live alone with their father, who is out all 
day, and the children have to do everything for themselves. 
The young ones here who have no mothers seem by far the 
worst off. This little deformed boy, poor as he is, finds 
something to give away. Presently T see him scrambhng 
over the backs of the others, and feeding them with small 
shreds of meat, which he takes out of his soup with his 
grubby little fiingers, and which one Httle boy, called Thomp- 
son, is eating with immense rehsh. Mrs. K here comes 

up, and says that those who are hungry are to have some 
more. Thompson has some more, and so does another rosy 
little fellow ; but the others have hardly finished what was 
first given them, and the very little ones send off their pud- 
ding half eaten, and ask for soup. The mistresses here are 
quite touchingly kind and thoughtful. I did not hear a sharp 
tone. All the children seemed at home, and happy, and 
gently dealt with. However cruelly want and care and 
harshness haunt their own homes, here at least there are 
only kind words and comfort for these poor little pilgrims 

whose toil has begun so early. Mrs. told me once, 

that often in winter time these cliildren come barefooted 
through the snow, and so cold and hungry that they have 
fallen off their seats half fainting. We may be sure that 
such little sufferers — thanks to these Good Samaritans ! — 
will be tenderly picked up and cared for. But, I wonder, 
must there always be cliildren in the world hungry and de- 
serted ? and will there never, out of all the abundance of the 
earth, be enough to spare to content those who want so Httle 
to make them happy ? 

Mrs. came in while I was still at the school, and 

took me over the workshops where the elder boys learn to 
carpenter and carve. Scores of di-awing-rooms in Belgravia 
are bristHng with the pretty little tables and ornaments these 
young artificers design. A young man with a scriptm^al 
name superintends the work ; the boys are paid for their 



56 ANNA THACKERAY, 

labor, and send out red velvet and twisted legs, and wood 
ornamented in a hundred devices. There is an industrial 
class for girls, too. The best and oldest are taken in, and 
taught housework, and kitchen-work, and sewing. Even the 
fathers and mothers come in for a share of the good things, 
and are invited to tea sometimes, and amused in the evening 
with magic-lanterns, and conjurers, and lecturings. I do not 
dwell at greater length upon the industrial part of these 
schools, because I want to speak of another very similar 
institution I went to see another day. 

On my way thither I had occasion to go through an old 
churchyard, full of graves and sunshine ; a quaint old sub- 
urban place, with tree-tops and old brick houses all round 
about, and ancient windows looking down upon the quiet 
tombstones. Some children were playing among the graves, 
and two rosy little girls in big bonnets were sitting demurely 
on a stone, and grasping two babies that were placidly bask- 
ing in the sun. The little girls look up and grin as I go by. 
I would ask them the way, only I know they won't answer, 
and so I go on, out at an old iron gate, with a swinging 
lamp, up " Church Walk" (so it is written), and along a 
trim little terrace, to where a maid-of-all-work is scrubbing 

at her steps. When I ask the damsel my way to B 

Street, she says she " do-ant know B Street, but there 's 

Little Davis Street round the corner " ; and when I say I 'm 
afraid Little Davis Street is no good to me, she says, " 'T ain't 
Gunter's Row, is it ? " So I go off in despair, and after some 
minutes of brisk walking jfind myself turning up the trim 
little terrace again, where the maid-of-all-work is still busy 
at her steps. This time, as we have a sort of acquaint- 
ance, I tell her that I am looking for a house where girls 
are taken in, and educated, and taught to be housemaids. 
At which confidence she brightens up, and says, " There 's a 
'ouse round the-ar with some think wrote on the door, jest 
where the little boy's a-trundhn' of his 'oop." 



LITTLE SCHOLARS. 57 

And so, sure enough, following the hoop, I come to an 
old-fashioned house in a court-yard, and ring at a wooden 
door, on which " Girls' Industrial Schools " is painted up in 
white letters. 

A little industrious girl, in a lilac pinafore, let me in, with 
a courtesy. 

" May I come in and see the place ? " say I. 

" Please, yes," says she (another courtesy). " Please, what 
name? please walk this way." 

" This way " leads through the court, where clothes are 
hanging on lines, into a little office-room, where my guide 
leaves me, with yet another little courtesy. In a minute the 
mistress comes out from the inner room. She is a kind, 
smiling young woman, with a fresh face and a pleasant man- 
ner. She takes me in, and I see a dozen more girls in lilac 
pinafores reading round a deal table. They look mostly 
about thirteen or fourteen years old. I ask if this is all the 
school. 

" No, not all," the mistress says, counting ; " some are in 
the laundry, and some are not at home. When they are 
old- enough, they go out into the neighborhood to help to 
wash, or cook, or what not. Go on, girls ! " and the gii'ls 
instantly begin to read again, and the mistress, opening a 
door, brings us out into the passage. " We have room for 
twenty-two," says the Httle mistress ; " and we dress them, 
and feed them, and teach them as well as we can. On 
week-days they wear anything we can find for them, but 
they have very nice frocks on Sundays. I never leave 
them; I sit with them, and sleep among them, and walk 
with them ; they are always friendly and affectionate to me 
and among themselves, and are very good companions." 

In answer to my questions, she said that most of the 
cliildren were put in by friends who paid half a crown a 
week for them, sometimes the parents themselves, but they 
could rarely afford it. That besides this, and what the girls 



58 ANNA THACKERAY. 

could earn, £ 200 a year is required for the rent of tlie 
house and expenses. " It has always been made up," says 
the mistress, " but we can't help being very anxious at times, 
as we have nothing certain, nor any regular subscriptions. 
Won't you see the laundry ? " she adds, opening a door. 

In the laundry is a steam, and a clatter, and irons, and 
linen, and a little mangle, turned by two little girls, while 
two or three more are busy ironing under the superintend- 
ence of a washerwoman with tucked-up sleeves ; piles of 
shirt-collars and handkerchiefs and linen are lying on the 
shelves, shirts and clothes are hanging on lines across the 
room. The little girls don't stop, but go on busily. 

" Wliere is Mary Anne ? " says the mistress, with a little 
conscious pride. 

" There she is, mum," says the washerwoman, and Mary 
Anne steps out, blushing, from behind the mangle, with a 
hot iron in her hand and a hanging head. 

"Mary Anne is our chief laundry-maid," says the mis- 
tress, as we came out into the hall again. " For the first 
year I could make nothing of her ; she was miserable in the 
kitchen, she couldn't bear housework, she wouldn't learn 
her lessons. In fact, I was quite unhappy about her, till 
one day I set her to ironing ; she took to it instantly, and 
has been quite cheerful and busy ever since." 

So leaving Mary Anne to her vocation in life, we went 
jp-stairs to the dormitories. The first floor is let to a lady, 
and one of the girls is chosen to wait upon her ; the second 
floor is where they sleep, in fresh light rooms with open 
windows and sweet spring breezes blowing in across gar- 
dens and court-yards. The place was delightfully trim and 
fresh and peaceful; the little gray-coated beds stood in 
rows, with a basket at the foot of each, and texts were 
hanging up on the wall. In the next room stood a ward- 
robe full of the girls' Sunday clothes, of which one of them 
keeps the key ; after this came the mistress's own room, as 
fresh and light and well kept as the rest. 



LITTLE SCHOLAES. 50 

These little maidens scrub and cook and wash and sew. 
They make broth for the poor, and puddings. They are 
taught to read and write and count, and they learn geogra- 
phy and history as well. Many of them come from dark, 
unwholesome alleys in the neighborhood, — from a dreary 
country of dirt and crime and foul talk. In this little con- 
vent all is fresh and pure, and the sunshine pours in at 
every window. I don't know that the life is very exciting 
there, or that the days spent at the mangle, or round the 
deal table, can be very stirring ones. But surely they are 
well spent, learning useful arts, and order and modesty and 
cleanliness. Think of the cellars and slums from which 
these children come, and of the quiet little haven where 
they are fitted for the struggle of life, and are taught to be 
good and industrious and sober and honest. It is only for 
a year or two, and then they will go out into the world 
again, — into a world, indeed, of which we know but little, 
— a world of cooks and kitchen-maids and general servants. 
I daresay these little industrious girls, sitting round that 
table and spelling out the Gospel of St. John this sunny 
afternoon, are longing and wistfully thinking about that 
wondrous coming time. Meanwhile the quiet hour goes by. 
I say farewell to the kind, smih'ng mistress ; Mary Anne is 
still busy among her irons ; I hear the mangle click as I 
pass, and the wooden door opens to let me out. 

In another old house, standing in a deserted old square 
near the city, there is a school which interested me as 
much as any of those I have come across, — a school for 
little Jewish boys and girls. We find a tranquil, roomy old 
house, with light windows looking out into the quiet square 
with its ancient garden ; a carved staircase ; a little hall 
paved with black and white mosaic, whence two doors lead 
respectively to the Boys' and Girls' schools. Presently a 
little girl unlocks one of these doors, and runs up before us 
into the school-room, — a long, well-lighted room full of other 



60 ANNA THACKERAY. 

little girls busy at their desks : little Hebrew maidens with 
Oriental faces, who look up at us as we come in. This is 

always rather an alarming moment ; but Dr. ^ who knows 

the children, comes kindly to our help, and begins to tell us 
about the school. " It is an experiment," he says, " and 
one which has answered admirably well. Any children are 
admitted, Christians as well as Jews ; and none come with- 
out paying something every week, twopence or threepence, 
as they can afford, for many of them belong to the very 
poorest of the Jewish community. They receive a very 
high class of education." (When I presently see what they 
are doing, and hear the questions they can answer, I begin 
to feel a very great respect for these little bits of girls in 
pinafores, and for the people Tfho are experimenting on 
them.) " But the chief aim of the school is to teach 
them to help themselves, and to inculcate an honest self- 
dependence and independence." And, indeed, as I look at 
them, I cannot but be struck with a certain air of re- 
spectability and uprightness among these little creatures, 
as they sit there, so self-possessed, keen-eyed, well-mannered. 
" Could you give them a parsing lesson ? " the doctor asks 
the schoolmistress, who shakes her head, and says it is their 
day for arithmetic, and she may not interrupt the order of 
their studies ; but that they may answer any questions the 
doctor likes to put to them. 

Quite little things, with their hair in curls, can tell you 
about tons and hundredweights, and how many horses it 
would take to draw a ton, and how many little girls to draw 
two thirds of a ton, if so many little girls went to a horse ; 
and if a horse were added, or a horse taken away, or two 
eighths of the little girls, or three fourths of the horse, or 
one sixth of the ton, — until the room begins to spin 
breathlessly round and round, and I am left ever so far 
behindhand. 

" Is avoirdupois an English word ? " Up goes a little 



LITTLE SCHOLARS. 61 

hand, with fingers working eagerly, and a pretty little 
creature, with long black hair and a necklace, cries out that 
it is French, and means, have weight. 

Then the doctor asks about early English history, and the 
hands still go up, and they know all about it ; and so they 
do about civilization, and despotism, and charters, and Picts 
and Scots, and dynasties, and early lawgivers, and coloniza- 
tion, and reformation. 

"Who was Martin Luther? Why did he leave the 
Catholic Church ? What were indulgences ? " 

" You gave the Pope lots of money, sir, and he gave you 
dispensations." This was from our little portress. 

There was another little shrimp of a thing, with wonder- 
ful, long-slit, flashing eyes, who could answer anything 
almost, and whom the other little girls accordingly brought 
forward in triumph from a back row. 

" Give me an instance of a free country ? " asks the tired 
questioner. 

" England, sir ! " cry the little girls in a shout. 

" And now of a country which is not free." 

" America," cry two little voices ; and then one adds, 
" Because there are slaves, sir." " And France," says a 
third ; " and we have seen the emperor in the pipture- 
shops." 

As I listen to them, I cannot help wishing that many of 
our little Christians were taught to be as independent and 
self-respecting in their dealings with the grown-up people 
who come to look at them. One would fancy that servility 
was a sacred institution, we cling to it so fondly. We seem 
to expect an absurd amount of respect from our inferiors ; 
we are ready to pay back just as much to those above us in 
station : and hence I think, notwithstanding all the kindness 
of heart, all the well-meant and well-spent exertion we see 
in the world, there is often too great an inequality between 
those who teach and those who would learn, those who give 
and those whose harder part it is to receive. 



62 ANNA THACKERAY. 

We were quite sorry at last when the doctor made a little 
bow, and said, " Good morning, young ladies," quite politely, 
to his pupils. It was too late to stop and talk to the little 
boys down below, but we went for a minute into an inner 
room out of the large boys' school-room, and there we found 
half a dozen little men, with their hats on their heads, sitting 
on their benches, reading the Psalms in Hebrew ; and so we 
stood, for this minute before we came away, listening to 
David's words spoken in David's tongue, and ringing rather 
sadly in the boys' touching cliildish voice. 

But this is not by any means the principal school which 
the Jews have established in London. Deep in the heart 
of the city, — beyond St. Paul's, — beyond the Cattle 
Market, with its countless pens, — beyond Finsbury Square, 
and the narrow Barbican, — travelling on through a dirty, 
close, thickly peopled region, you come to Bell Lane, in 
Spitalfields. And here you may step in at a door and sud- 
denly find yourself in a wonderful country, in the midst of 
an unknown people, in a great hall sounding with the voices 
of hundreds of Jewish children. I know not if it is always 
so, or if this great assemblage is only temporary, during the 
preparation for the Passover, but all along the sides of this 
great room were curtained divisions, and classes sitting 
divided, busy at their tasks, and children upon children as 
far as you could see ; and somehow as you look you almost 
see, not these children only, but their forefathers, the Chil- 
dren of Israel, camping in their tents, as they camped at 
Succoth, when they fled out of the land of Egypt and the 
house of bondage. Some of these here present to-day are 
still flying from the house of bondage ; many of them are 
the children of Poles and Russians and Hungarians, who 
have escaped over here to avoid conscription, and who arrive 
destitute and in great misery. But to be friendless, and in 
want, and poverty-stricken is the best recommendation for 
admission to this noble charity. And here, as elsewhere, 



LITTLE SCHOLARS. 63 

any one who comes to the door is taken in, Christian as 
well as Jew. 

I have before me now the Report for the year 5619 
(1858), during which 1,800 children have come to these 
schools daily. 10,000 in all have been admitted since the' 
foundation of the school. The working alone of the estab- 
lishment — salaries, repairs, books, laundresses, &c. — 
amounts to more than £ 2,000 a year. Of this a very con- 
siderable portion goes in salaries to its officers, of whom I 
count more than fifty in the first page of the pamphlet. 
" £ 12 to a man for washing boys," is surely well-spent 
money; "£3 to a beadle, £14 for brooms and brushes, 
£ 1 195. Qd. for repair of clocks," are among the items. 
The annual subscriptions are under £500, and the very 
existence of the place (so says the Report) depends on 
voluntary offerings at the anniversary. That some of these 
gifts come in with splendid generosity I need scarcely say. 
Clothing for the whole school arrives at Easter, once a year, 
and I saw great bales of boots for the boys waiting to be 
unpacked in their school-room. Tailors and shoemakers 
come and take measurings beforehand, so that everybody 
gets his own. To-day, these artists having retired, car- 
penters and bricklayers are at work all about the place, and 
the great boys' school, which is larger still than the girls', is 
necessarily empty, — except that a group of teachers and 
monitors are standing in one corner talking and whisper- 
ing together. The head-master, with a black beard, comes 
down from a hisjh desk in an inner room, and tells us about 
the place, — about the cleverness of the children, and the 
scholarship lately founded ; how well many of the boys turn 
out in after life, and for what good positions they are fitted 
by the education they are able to receive here ; — " though 
Jews," he said, "are debarred by their religious require- 
ments from two thirds of the employments which Christians 
are able to fill. Masters cannot afford to employ workmen 



64 ANNA THACKERAY. 

who can only give their time from Monday to Friday after- 
noon. There are, therefore, only a very limited number of 
occupations open to us. Some of our boys rise to be min- 
isters, and many become teachers here, in which case gov- 
ernment allows them a certain portion of their salary." 

The head-mistress in the girls' school was not less kind 
and ready to answer our questions. During the winter 
mornings, hot bread-and-milk are given out to any girl who 
chooses to ask for it, but only about a hundred come for- 
ward, of the very hungriest and poorest. When we came 

away from Square a day before, we had begun to 

think that all poor Jews were well and warmly clad, and 
had time to curl their hair and to look clean and prosperous 
and respectable, but here, alas ! comes the old story of want 
and sorrow and neglect. What are these brown, lean, wan 
little figures, in loose gowns falling from their shoulders, — 
black eyes, fazzy, unkempt hair, strange bead necklaces round 
their throats and ear-rings in their ears ? I fancied these 
must be the Poles and Russians ; but when I spoke to one 
o:^ them, she smiled, and answered very nicely, in perfectly 
good English, and told me she liked writing best of all, and 
showed me a copy very neat, even, and legible. 

Whole classes seemed busy sewing at lilac pinafores, 
which are, I suppose, a great national institution; others 
were ciphering and calling out the figures as the mistress 
chalked the sum upon a slate. Hebrew alphabets and sen- 
tences were hanging up upon the walls. All these little 
Hebrew maidens learn the language of their nation. 

In the infant-school, a very fat little pouting baby, with 
dark eyes, and a little hook-nose and curly locks, and a blue 
necklace, and funny ear-rings in her little rosy ears, came 
forward, grasping one of the mistresses' fingers. 

" This is a good little girl," said that lady, " who knows 
her alphabet in Hebrew and in English." 

And the little girl looks up very solemn, as children 



LITTLE SCHOLARS. . 65 

do, to whom everything is of vast importance, and each 
little incident a great new fact. The infant-schools do 
not make part of the Bell Lane Establishment, though 
they are connected with it, and the children, as they grow 
up, and are infants no longer, draft off into the great free- 
school. 

The infant-school is a light, new building close by, with 
arcaded play-grounds, and plenty of light and air and 
freshness, though it stands in this dreary, grimy region. As 
we come into the school-rooms we find, piled up on steps at 
either end, great living heaps of little infants, swaying, kick- 
ing, shouting for their dinner, beating aimlessly about with 
little legs and arms. Little Jew babies are uncommonly 
like little Christians ; just as funny, as hungry, as helpless, 
and happy now that the bowls of food come steaming in. 
One, two, three, four, five little cook-boys, in white jackets 
and caps and aprons, appear in a line, with trays upon 
their heads, like the processions out of the Arabian Nights ; 
and as each cook-boy appears, the children cheer, and the 
potatoes steam hotter and hotter, and the mistresses begin 
to ladle them out. 

Rice and brown potatoes is the manna given twice a 
week to these hungry little Israelites. I rather wish for 
the soup and pudding certain small Christians are gobbling 
up just about tliis time in another corner of London ; but 
this is but a halfpenny-worth, wliile the other meal costs a 
penny. You may count by hundreds here, instead of by 
tens ; and I don't think there would be so much shouting at 
the little cook-boys if these hungry little beaks were not 
eager for their food. I was introduced to one little boy 
here, who seemed to be very much looked up to by liis 
companions because he had one long curl right along the 
top of his head. As we were busy talking to hun, a 
number of little things sittmg on the floor were busy strok- 
ing and feelmo^ with little gentle finorers the soft edores of a 



66 ANNA THACKERAY. 

coat one of us had on, and the silk dress of a lady who was 
present. 

The lady who takes chief charge of these 400 babies 
told us how the mothers as well as the children got assist- 
ance here in many ways, sometimes coming for advice, 
sometimes for small loans of money, which they always 
faithfully repay. She also showed us letters from some of 
the boys who have left and prospered in life. One from a 
youth who has lately been elected alderman in some distant 
colony. She took us into a class-room and gave a lesson to 
some twenty little creatures, while, as it seemed to me, all 
the 380 others were tapping at the door, and begging to be 
let in. It was an object-, and then a scripture-lesson, and 
given with the help of old familiar pictures. There was 
Abraham with his beard, and Isaac and the ram, hanging 
up against the wall ; there was Moses, and the Egyptians, 
and Joseph, and the sack and the brethren, somewhat out 
of drawing. All these old friends gave one quite a homely 
feeling, and seemed to hold out friendly hands to us 
strangers and Philistines, standing within the gates of the 
chosen people. 

Before we came away the mistress opened a door and 
showed us one of the prettiest and most touching sights I 
have ever seen. It was the arcaded play-ground full of 
happy, shouting, tumbling, scrambling little creatures : little 
tumbled-down ones kicldng and shouting on the ground, 
absurd toddling races going on, whole files of little things 
wandering up and down with their arms round one another's 
necks : a happy, friendly little multitude indeed : a sight 
good for sore eyes. 

And so I suppose people of all nations and religions love 
and tend their little ones, and watch and yearn over them. 
I have seen little Catholics cared for by kind nuns with 
wistful tenderness, as the young ones came clinging to their 
black vails and playing with their chaplets ; — little High- 



LITTLE SCHOLARS. 67 

Church maidens growing up rosy and happy amid crosses 
and mediaeval texts, and chants, and dinners of fish, and 
kind and melancholy ladies in close caps and loose-cut 
dresses ; — little Low- Church children smiling and dropping 
courtesies as they see the Rev. Mr. Faith-in-grace coming 
up the lane with tracts in his big pockets about pious ne- 
groes, and broken vessels, and devouring worms, and I 
dare say pennies and sugar-plums as well. 

Who has not seen and noted these things, and blessed, 
with a thankful, humble heart, that fatherly Providence 
which has sent this pure and tender religion of little chil- 
dren to all creeds and to all the world? 



ANDANTE. 

BEETHOVEN'S SIXTH SYMPHONY. 
By a. west. 

SOUNDING above the warring of the years, 
Over their stretch of toils, and pains, and fears, 
Comes the well-loved refrain. 
That ancient voice again. 

Sweeter than when beside the river's marge 
"We lay and watched, like Innocence at large, 

The changeful waters flow, 

Speaks this brave music now. 

Tender as sunlight upon childhood's head, 
Serene as moonlight upon childhood's bed, 

Comes the remembered power 

Of that forgotten hour. 

The little brook with merry voice and low, 

The gentle ripples rippling far below. 
Talked with no idle voice, 
Though idling were their choice. 

Now through the tumult and the pride of life, 
Gentler, yet firmly soothing all its strife, 

Nature draws near once more. 

And knocks at the world's door. 

She walks within her wild, harmonious maze, 
Evolving melodies from doubt and haze, 

And leaves us freed from care, 

Like children standing there. 



ON DREAMS. 

By sir THOMAS BROWNE. 



HALF our days we pass in the shadow of the earth ; 
and the brother of death exacteth a third part of our 
Hves. A good part of our sleep is peered out with visions 
and fantastical objects, wherein we are confessedly deceived. 
The day supplieth us with truths ; the night, with fictions 
and falsehoods, which uncomfortably divide the natural ac- 
count of our beings. And, therefore, having passed the day 
in sober labors and rational inquiries of truth, we are faiu 
to betake ourselves unto such a state of being, wherein the 
soberest heads have acted all the monstrosities of melancholy, 
and which unto open eyes are no better than folly and mad- 
ness. 

Happy are they that go to bed with grand music, like 
Pythagoras, or have ways to compose the fantastical spirit, 
whose unruly wanderings ake off inward sleep, filling our 
heads with St. Author '^ visions, and the di'eams of Lipara 
in the sober chamber ^f rest. 

Virtuous thoughts of the day lay up good treasures for 
the night ; whereby the impressions of imaginary forms 
arise into sober sim'litudes, acceptable unto our slumbering 
selves and preparatory unto divine impressions. Hereby 
Solomon's sL j was happy. Thus prepared, Jacob might 
wel irefTo f angels upon a pillow of stone. And the best 
sleep '^f Adam might be the best of any after.* 

he best sleep of Adam, cf c] The only sleep of Adam recorded is that 
;h God caused to fall upon him, and which resulted in the creation 



70 ^ SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 

That there should be divine dreams seems unreasonably 
doubted by Aristotle. That there are demoniacal dreams 
we have little reason to doubt. Why may there not be 
angelical ? If there be guardian spirits, they may not be 
inactively about us in sleep ; but may sometimes order our 
dreams : and many strange hints, instigations, or discourses, 
which are so amazing unto us, may arise from such founda- 
tions. 

But the phantasms of sleep do commonly walk in the 
great road of natural and animal dreams, wherein the 
thoughts or actions of the day are acted over and echoed 
in the night. Who can therefore wonder that Chrysostom 
should dream of St. Paul, who daily read his epistles ; or 
that Cardan, whose head was so taken up about the stars, 
should dream that his soul was in the moon ! Pious per- 
sons, whose thoughts are daily busied about heaven, and the 
blessed state thereof, can hardly escape the nightly phan- 
tasms of it, which though sometimes taken for illuminations, 
or divine dreams, yet rightly perpended may prove but 
animal visions, and natural night-scenes of their awaking 
contemplations. 

Many dreams are made out by sagacious exposition, and 
from the signature of their subjects ; carrying their interpre- 
tation in their fundamental sense and mystery of similitude, 
whereby he that understands upon what natural fundamental 
every notion dependeth may, by symbolical adaptation, hold 
a ready way to read the characters of Morpheus. In dreams 
of such a nature, Artemidorus, Achmet, and Astrampsichus, 
from Greek, Egyptian, and Arabian oneiro-criticism, may 
hint some interpretation ; who, while we read of a ladder in 
Jacob's dream, will tell us that ladders and scalary ascents 
signify preferment; and while we consider the dream of 
Pharaoh, do teach us that rivers overflowing speak plenty, 

of ■woman. It does not very clearly appear whether Sir Thomas calls it 
the best sleep of Adam in allusion to its origin or its result. 



ON DREAMS. 71 

lean oxen, famine and scarcity ; and therefore it was but 
reasonable in Pharaoh to demand the interpretation from 
his magicians, who, being Egyptians, should have been well 
versed in symbols and the hieroglypliical notions of things. 
The greatest tyrant in such divinations was Nabuchodonosor, 
while, besides the interpretation, he demanded the dream 
itself; which being probably determined by divine immission, 
might escape the common road of phantasms, that might have 
been traced by Satan. 

When Alexander, going to besiege Tyre, dreamt of a 
Satyr, it was no hard exposition for a Grecian to say, " Tyre 
will be thine." He that dreamed that he saw his father 
washed by Jupiter and anointed by the sun, had cause to 
fear that he might be crucified, whereby his body would be 
washed by the rain, and drop by the heat of the sun. The 
dream of Vespasian was of harder exposition ; as also that 
of the Emperor Mauritius, concerning his successor Phocas. 
And a man might have been hard put to it to interpret the 
language of JEsculapius, when to a consumptive person he 
held forth his fingers ; implying thereby that his cure lay in 
dates, from the homonomy of the Greek, which signifies 
dates and fingers. 

We owe unto dreams that Galen was a physician, Dion 
an historian, and that the world hath seen some notable 
pieces of Cardan ; yet, he that should order his aflfairs by 
dreams, or make the night a rule unto the day, miglit be 
ridiculously deluded ; wherein Cicero is much to be j^itied, 
who having excellently discoursed of the vanity of dreams, 
was yet undone by the flattery of liis own, which urged him 
to apply himself unto Augustus. 

However dreams may be fallacious concerning outward 
events, yet may they be truly significant at home ; and 
whereby we may more sensibly understand ourselves. Men 
act in sleep with some conformity unto their awaked senses ; 
and consolations or discouragements may be di-awn from 



72 SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 

dreams whicli intimately tell us ourselves. Lutlier was not 
like to fear a spirit in the night, when such an apparition 
would not terrify him in the day. Alexander would hardly 
have run away in the sharpest combats of sleep, nor Demos- 
thenes have stood stoutly to it, who was scarce able to do it 
in his prepared senses. 

Persons of radical integrity will not easily be perverted 
in their dreams, nor noble minds do pitiful things in sleep. 
Crassus would have hardly been bountiful in a dream, whose 
fist was so close awake. But a man might have lived all his 
life upon the sleeping hand of Antonius.* 

There is an art to make dreams, as well as their interpre- 
tations ; and physicians will tell us that some food makes 
turbulent, some gives quiet dreams. Cato, who doated upon 
cabbage, might find the crude effects thereof in his sleep ; 
wherein the Egyptians might find some advantage by their 
superstitious abstinence from onions. Pythagoras might 
have [had] calmer sleeps, if he [had] totally abstained 
from beans. Even Daniel, the great interpreter of dreams, 
in his leguminous diet seems to have chosen no advanta- 
geous food for quiet sleeps, according to Grecian physic. 

To add unto the delusion of dreams, the fantastical ob- 
jects seem greater than they are ; and being beheld in the 
vaporous state of sleep, enlarge their diameters unto us ; 
whereby it may prove more easy to dream of giants than 
pygmies. Democritus might seldom dream of atoms, who 
so often thought of them. He almost might dream himself 
a bubble extending unto the eighth sphere. A little water 
makes a sea ; a small puff of wind a tempest. A grain of 
sulphur kindled in the blood may make a flame like ^tna ; 
and a small spark in the bowels of Oljonpias a lightning 
over all the chamber. 

* sleeping hand of AntoniusJ] Who awake was open-handed and liberal, 
in contrast with the close-Jistedness of Crassus, and therefore would have 
been munificent in his dreams. 



ON DKEAMS. 73 

But, beside these innocent delusions, there is a sinful state 
of dreams. Death alone, not sleep, is able to put an end unto 
sin ; and there may be a night-book of our iniquities ; for 
beside the transgressions of the day, casuists will tell us of 
mortal sins in dreams, arising from evil precogitations ; mean- 
while human law regards not noctambulos ; and if a night- 
walker should break his neck, or kill a man, takes no notice 
of it. 

Dionysius was absurdly tyrannical to kill a man for dream- 
ing that he had killed him ; and really to take away his life, 
who had but fantastically taken away his. Lamia was ridicu- 
lously unjust to sue a young man for a reward, who had 
confessed that pleasure from her in a dream which she had 
denied unto his awaking senses : conceiving that she had 
merited somewhat from his fantastical fruition and shadow 
of herself If there be such debts, we owe deeply unto 
sympathies ; but the common spirit of the world must be 
ready in such aprearages. 

If some have swooned, they may have also died in dreams, 
since death is but a confirmed swooning. Whether Plato 
died in a dream, as some deliver, he must rise again to 
inform us. That some have never dreamed is as improbable 
as that some have never laughed. That children dream not 
the first half-year ; that men dream not in some countries, 
with many more, are unto me sick men's dreams ; dreams 
out of the ivory gate,* and visions before midnight. 

* tJie ivory gate.] The poets suppose two gates of sleep, the one of 
horn, from which true dreams proceed ; the other of ivory, which sends 
forth false dreams. 



GOBLIN MARKET. 

By CHRISTINA EOSSETTI. 

MOEISTING and evening 
Maids heard the goblins cry ; 
" Come buy our orchard fruits, 
Come buy, come buy ; 
Apples and quinces. 
Lemons and oranges, 
Plump unpecked cherries, 
Melons and raspberries, 
Bloom-down-cheeked peaches, 
Swart-headed mulberries. 
Wild free-born cranberries. 
Crab-apples, dewberries. 
Pine-apples, blackberries, 
Apricots, strawberries ; — 
AJl ripe together 
In summer weather, — 
Morns that pass by. 
Fair eves that fly ; 
Come buy, come buy : 
Our grapes fresh from the vine. 
Pomegranates full and fine, 
Dates and sharp bullaces. 
Rare pears and greengages, 
Damsons and bilberries, 



GOBLIN MAEKET. 75 

Taste them and try :' 

Currants and gooseberries, 

Bright-fire-like barberries, 

Figs to fill your mouth, 

Citrons from the South, 

Sweet to tongue and sound to eye ; 

Come buy, come buy." 

Evening by evening 
Among the brookside rushes, 
Laura bowed her head to hear, 
Lizzie veiled her blushes : 
Crouching close together 
In the cooling weather, 
With clasping arms and cautioning lips, 
With tingling cheeks and finger tips. 
" Lie close," Laura said, 
Pricking up her golden head : 
" We must not look at goblin men, 
We must not buy their fruits : 
Who knows upon what soil they fed 
Their hungry, thirsty roots ? " 
" Come buy," call the goblins. 
Hobbling down the glen. 
" Oh," cried Lizzie, " Laura, Laura, 
You should not peep at goblin men." 
Lizzie covered up her eyes. 
Covered close, lest they should look ; 
Laura reared her glossy head. 
And whispered like the restless brook : 
" Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, 

Down the glen tramp little men. ' 

One hauls a basket, 
One bears a plate. 
One lugs a golden dish 



76 CHRISTINA EOSSETTI. 

Of many pounds weight. 

How fair the vine must grow 

Whose grapes are so luscious ; 

How warm the wind must blow 

Through those fruit bushes." 

" No," said Lizzie : " No, no, no ; 

Their offers should not charm us, 

Their evil gifts would harm us." 

She thrust a dimpled finger 

In each ear, shut eyes and ran : 

Curious Laura chose to linger, 

Wondering at each merchant man. 

One had a cat's face, 

One whisked a tail. 

One tramped at a rat's pace. 

One crawled like a snail, 

One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry, 

One .like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry. 

She heard a voice like voice of doves 

Cooing all together : 

They sounded kind and full of loves - 

In the pleasant weather. 

Laura stretched her gleaming neck 
Like a rush-imbedded swan, 
Like a lily from the beck. 
Like a moonlit poplar branch. 
Like a vessel at the launch. 
When its last restraint is gone. 

Backwards up the mossy glen 
Turned and trooped the goblin men. 
With their shrill, repeated cry, 
" Come buy, come buy." 
When they reached where Laura was 



GOBLIN MARKET. 77. 

They stood stock still upon the moss, 

Leering at each other, 

Brother with queer brother ; 

Signalling each other, 

Brother with sly brother. 

One set his basket down. 

One reared his plate ; 

One began to weave a crown 

Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown 

(Men sell not such in any town) ; 

One heaved the golden weight 

Of dish and fruit to offer her : 

" Come buy, come buy," was still their cry. 

Laura stared, but did not stir. 

Longed, but had no money : 

The wliisk-tailed merchant bade her taste 

Li tones as smooth as honey. 

The cat-faced purred, 

The rat-paced spoke a word 

Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard ; 

One parrot-voiced and jolly 

Cried " Pretty Goblin " stiU for " Pretty Polly " ; — 

One whistled like a bird. 

But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste : 
" Good folk, I have no coin ; 
To take were to purloin : 
I have no copper in my purse, 
I have no silver either, 
And all my gold is on the furze 
That shakes in windy weather 
Above the rusty heather." 
" You have much gold upon your head," 
They answered all together : 
" Buy from us with a golden curl." 



78 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. 

She clipped a precious golden lock, 

She dropped a tear more rare than pearl, 

Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red : 

Sweeter than honey from the rock, 

Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, 

Clearer than water flowed that juice ; 

She never tasted such before. 

How should it cloj with length of use ? 

She sucked and sucked and sucked the more 

Fruits which that unknown orchard bore ; 

She sucked until her lips were sore ; 

Then flung the emptied rinds away, 

But gathered up one kernel-stone, 

And knew not was it night or day 

As she turned home alone. 

Lizzie met her at the gate, 
Full of wise upbraidings : 
" Dear, you should not stay so late, 
Twilight is not good for maidens ; 
Should not loiter in the glen, 
In the haunts of goblin men. 
Do you not remember Jeanie, 
How she met them in the moonlight, 
Took their gifts both choice and many, 
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers. 
Plucked from bowers 
"Where summer ripens at all hours ? 
But ever in the moonlight 
She pined and pined away ; 
Sought them by night and day. 
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew gray ; 
Then fell with the first snow. 
While to this day no grass will grow 
Where she lies low : 



GOBLIN MARKET. 79 

I planted daisies there a year ago 

That never blow. 

You should not loiter so." 

" Nay, hush," said Laura : 

" Nay, hush, my sister : 

I ate and ate my fill, 

Yet my mouth waters still ; 

To-morrow night I will 

Buy more " : and kissed her : 

" Have done with sorrow ; 

I '11 bring you plums to-morrow 

Fresh on their mother twigs, 

Cherries worth getting ; 

You cannot think what figs 

My teeth have met in, 

What melons icy-cold 

Piled on a dish of gold 

Too huge for me to hold, 

"What peaches with a velvet nap, 

Pellucid grapes without one seed : 

Odorous indeed must be the mead 

"Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink 

"With lilies at the brink. 

And sugar-sWeet their sap." 

Golden head by golden head, 
Like two pigeons in one nest 
Folded in each other's wings. 
They lay down in their curtained bed : 
Like two blossoms on one stem. 
Like two flakes of new-fall'n snow, 
Like two wands of ivory 
Tipped with gold for awful kings. 
Moon and stars gazed in at them. 
Wind sang to them lullaby. 



80 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. 

Lumbering owls forbore to fly, 
Not a bat flapped to and fro 
E-ound their rest : 

Cheek to cheek and breast to breast 
Locked together in one nest. 

Early in the morning, 
When the first cock crowed his warning. 
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy, 
Laura rose with Lizzie : 
Fetched in honey, milked the cows. 
Aired and set to rights the house, 
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat. 
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat, 
Next churned butter, whipped up cream, 
Fed their poultry, sat and sewed ; 
Talked as modest maidens should : 
Lizzie with an open heart, 
Laura in an absent dream, 

One content, one sick in part ; , 

One warbling for the mere bright day's delight. 
One longing for the night. 

At length slow evening came : 
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook ; 
Lizzie most placid in her look, 
Laura most like a leaping flame. 
They drew the gurgling water from its deep ; 
Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags, 
Then turning homewards said : " The sunset flushes 
Those farthest loftiest crags ; 
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags. 
No wilful squirrel wags. 
The beasts and birds are fast asleep." 
But Laura loitered still among the rushes. 
And said the bank was steep. 



GOBLIN MARKET. 81 

And said the hour was early still, 
The dew not fall'n, the wind not chill : 
Listening ever, but not catcliing 
The customary cry, 
" Come buy, come buy," 
With its iterated jingle 
Of sugar-baited words : 
Not for all her watcbing 
Once discerning even one goblin 
Racing, whisldng, tumbling, hobbling ; 
Let alone the herds 
That used to tramp along the glen, 
In groups or single. 
Of brisk fruit-merchant men. 

Till Lizzie urged, " Laura, come ; 
I hear the fruit-call, but I dare not look ; 
You should not loiter longer at this brook : 
Come with me home. 
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc, 
Each glow-worm winks her spark, 
Let us get home before the night grows dark : 
For clouds may gather, 
Thougli this is summer weather, 
Put out the lights and drench us through ; 
Then if we lost our way, what should we do ? " 

Laura turned cold as stone 
To find her sister heard that cry alone. 
That goblin cry, 

" Come buy our fruits, come buy." 
Must she, then, buy no more such dainty fruits ? 
Must she no more that succous pasture find. 
Gone deaf and blind ? 
Her tree of life drooped from the root : 
6 



82 CHRISTINA EOSSETTI. 

She said not one word in her heart's sore ache ; 
But peering through the dimness, naught discerning, 
Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way : 
So crept to bed and lay- 
Silent till Lizzie slept ; 
Then sat up in a passionate yearning. 
And gnashed her teeth for balked desire, and wept 
As if her heart would break. 

Day after day, night after night, ^ 

Laura kept watch in vain 
Li sullen silence of exceeding pain. 
She never caught again the goblin cry : 
" Come buy, come buy " ; — 
She never spied the goblin men 
Hawking their fruits along the glen ; 
But when the noon waxed bright. 
Her hair grew tliin and gray ; 
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn 
To swift decay and burn 
Her fire away. 

One , day, remembering her kernel-stone, 
She set it by a wall that faced the south ; 
Dewed it with tears, hoj^ed for a root, 
Watched for a waxing shoot, 
But there came none ; 
It never saw the sun. 
It never felt the trickling moisture run : 
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth 
She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees 
False waves in desert drouth 
With shade of leaf-crowned trees. 
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze. 



GOBLIN MARKET. ; 

She no more swept the house, 
Tended the fowls or cows, 
Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat, 
Brought water from the brook : 
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook, 
And would not eat. 

Tender Lizzie could not bear 
To watch her sister's cankerous care. 
Yet not to share. 
She night and morning 
Caught the goblins' cry : 
" Come buy our orchard fruits. 
Come buy, come buy " : — 
Beside the brook, along the glen, 
She heard the tramp of goblin men. 
The voice and stir 
Poor Laura could nof hear ; 
Longed to buy fruit to comfort her, 
But feared to pay too dear. 
She thought of Jeanie in her grave, 
Who should have been a bride ; 
But who for joys brides hope to have 
Fell sick and died 
Li her gay prime. 
In earliest Winter time. 
With the first glazing rime. 
With the first snow-fall of crisp Winter time. 

Till Laura dwindling 
Seemed knocking at Death's door : 
Then Lizzie weighed no more 
Better and worse ; 

But put a silver penny in her purse, 
Eassed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze 



84 CHRISTINA EOSSETTL , 

At twilight, halted by the brook : 
' And for the first time in her life 
Began to listen and look. 

Laughed every goblin 
When they spied her peeping : 
Came towards her hobbling, 
Flying, running, leaping, 
Puffing and blowing. 
Chuckling, clapping, crowing. 
Clucking and gobbling, 
Mopping and mowing. 
Full of airs and graces, 
Pulling wry faces. 
Demure grinmces. 
Cat-like and rat-like, 
Ratel- and wombat-like, 
Snail-paced in a hurry, 
Parrot-voiced and whistler, 
Helter skelter, hurry skurry. 
Chattering like magpies, 
Fluttering like pigeons, 
Ghding Hke fishes, — 
Hugged her and kissed her. 
Squeezed and caressed her : 
Stretched up their dishes. 
Panniers, and plates : 
" Look at our apples 
Russet and dun. 
Bob at our cherries. 
Bite at our peaches, 
Citrons and dates. 
Grapes for the asking. 
Pears red with basking 
Out in the sun. 



GOBLIN MARKET. 85 

Plums on their twigs ; 
Pluck them and suck them, 
Pomegranates, figs." 

" Good folk," said Lizzie, 
Mindful of Jeanie : 
" Give me much and many " : — 
Held out her apron. 
Tossed them her penny. 
" Nay, take a seat with us, 
Honor and eat with us," 
They answered, grinning : 
" Our feast is but beginning. 
Night yet is early, 
"Warm and dew-pearly, 
Wakeful and starry : 
Such fruits as these 
No man can carry ; 
Half their bloom would fly, 
Half their dew would dry. 
Half their flavor would pass by. 
Sit down and feast with us. 
Be welcome guest with us, 
Cheer you and rest with us." — 
" Thank you," said Lizzie. " But one waits 
At home alone for me : 
So without further parleying, 
If you will not sell me any 
Of your fruits, though much and many, 
Give me back my silver penny 
I tossed you for a fee." — 
They began to scratch their pates, 
No longer wagging, purring. 
But visibly demurring, 
Gruntmg and snarling. 



86 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. 

One called her proud, 
Cross-grained, uncivil ; 
^ Their tones waxed loud, 

Their looks were evil. 
Lashing their tails 
They trod and hustled her, 
Elbowed and jostled her. 
Clawed with their nails. 
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, 
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking. 
Twitched her hair out by the roots, 
Stamped upon her tender feet. 
Held her hands and squeezed their fruits 
Against her mouth to make her eat. 

White and golden Lizzie stood, . 
Like a hly in a flood, — 
Like a rock of blue-veined stone 
Lashed by tides obstreperously, — 
Like a beacon left alone 
In a hoary roaring sea. 
Sending up a golden fire, — 
Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree 
White with blossoms honey-sweet 
Sore beset by wasp and bee, — 
Like a royal virgin town 
'Topped with gilded dome and spire 
j- Close beleaguered by a fleet 
Mad to tug her standard down. 

One may lead a horse to water, 
Twenty cannot make him drink. 
Though the goblins cuffed and caught her, 
Coaxed and fought her, 
Bullied and besought her. 



^ / 



GOBLIN MARKET. 87 

Scratched her, pinched her black as ink, 

Kicked and knocked her. 

Mauled and mocked her, .- — 

Lizzie uttered not a word i 

Would not open lip from l^p 

Lest they should cram a mouthful in : 

But laughed in heart to feel the drip 

Of juice that syrupped all her face, 

And lodged in dimples of her chin. 

And streaked her neck which quaked like curd. 

At last the evil people 

"Worn out by her resistance 

Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit 

Along whichever road they took. 

Not leaving root or stone or shoot ; 

Some writhed into the ground, 

Some dived into the brook 

"With ring and ripple. 

Some scudded on the gale without a sound, 

Some vanished in the distance. 

In a smart, ache, tingle, 
Lizzie went her way ; 
Knew not was it night or day ; 
Sprang up the bank, tore through the furze, 
Threaded copse and dingle. 
And heard her penny jingle 
Bouncing in her purse, — 
Its bounce was music to her ear. 
She ran and ran 

As if she feared some goblin man 
Dogged her with gibe or cui'se 
Or something worse : 
But not one goblin skurried after, 
Nor was she pricked by fear ; 



88 CHRISTINA EOSSETTL 

The kind heart made her windy-paced 

That urged her home quite out of breath "vvith haste 

And inward laughter. 

She cried " Laura," up the garden, 
" Did you miss me ? 
Come and kiss me. 
Never mind my bruises, 
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices 
Squeezed from goblin fruits for you, 
Goblin pulp and goblin dew. 
Eat me, drmk me, love me ; 
Laura make much of me : 
For your sake I have braved the glen 
And had to do with goblin merchant men." 

Laura started from her chair. 
Flung her arms up in the air. 
Clutched her hair : 
" Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted 
For my sake the fruit forbidden ? 
Must your light like mine be hidden, 
Your young life like mine be wasted, 
Undone in mine undoing 
And ruined in my ruin, 
Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden ? " 
She clung about her sister. 
Kissed and kissed and kissed her : 
Tears once again 
Refreshed her shrunken eyes. 
Dropping hke rain 
After long sultry drouth ; 
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain. 
She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth. 



GOBLIN MARKET. 89 

Her lips began to scorch, 
That juice was wormwood to her tongue, 
She loathed the feast : 

Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung, 
Rent all her robe, and wrung 
Her hands in lamentable haste, 
And beat her breast. 
Her locks streamed like the torch 
Borne by a racer at full speed. 
Or like the mane of horses in their flight. 
Or like an eagle when she stems the light 
Straight toward the sun, 
Or like a caged thing freed. 
Or like a flying flag when armies run. 

Swift fire spread through her veins, knocked at her heart, 
Met the fire smouldering there 
And overbore its lesser flame ; 
She gorged on bitterness without a name : 
Ah ! fool, to choose such part 
Of soul-consuming care ! 
Sense failed in the mortal strife : 
Like the watch-tower of a town 
Which an earthquake shatters down, 
Like a lightning-stricken mast, 
Like a wind-uprooted tree 
Spun about. 

Like a foam-topped waterspout 
Cast down headlong in the sea. 
She fell at last ; 
Pleasure past and anguish past. 
Is it death or is it life ? 

Life out of death. 
That night long Lizzie watched by her. 



90 . CHRISTIKA EOSSETTI. 

Counted her pulse's flagging stir, 

Felt for her breath, 

Held water to her lips, and cooled her face 

With tears and fanning leaves : 

But when the first birds chirped about their eaves, 

And early reapers plodded to the place ' 

Of golden sheaves. 

And dew-wet grass 

Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass, 

And new buds with new day 

Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream, 

Laura awoke as from a dream. 

Laughed in the innocent old way. 

Hugged Lizzie, but not twice or thrice ; 

Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of gray, 

Her breath was sweet as May, 

And light danced in her eyes. 

Days, weeks, months, years. 
Afterwards, when both were wives 
With children of their own ; 
Their mother-hearts beset with fears, 
Their lives bound up in tender lives ; 
Laura would call the little ones 
And tell them of her early prime. 
Those pleasant days long gone 
Of not-returning time : 
Would talk about the haunted glen, 
The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men, 
Their fruits like honey to the throat, 
' But poison in the blood ; 

(Men sell not such in any town : ) 
Would tell them how her sister stood, 
In deadly peril to do her good, 
And win the fiery antidote : 



GOBLIN MAEKET. 91 

Then joining hands to little hands 
"Would bid them cling together, 
" For there is no friend like a sister 
In calm or stormy weather ; 
To cheer one on the tedious way, 
To fetch one if one goes astray. 
To lift one if one totters down 
To strengthen whilst one stands." 



LOYE AND SKATES. 

By THEODORE WINTHROP. 
CHAPTER I. 

A KKOT AND A MAN TO CUT IT. 

CONSTERNATION ! Consternation in the back office 
of Benjamin Brummage, Esq., banker in Wall 
Street. 

Yesterday down came IVIr. Superintendent Wbiffler, from 
Dunderbunk, up the North River, to saj, that, " unless 
something be done, at once, the Dunderbunk Foundry and 
Tfon- Works must wind up." President Brummage forth- 
with convoked his Directors. And here they sat around 
the green table, forlorn as the guests at a Barmecide 
feast. 

Well they might be forlorn! It was the rosy summer 
solstice, the longest and fairest day of all the year. But 
rose-color and sunshine had fled from Wall Street. Noisy 
Crisis towing black Panic, as a puffing steam-tug drags a 
three-decker cocked and primed for destruction, had sud- 
denly sailed in upon Credit. 

As all the green inch-worms vanish on the tenth of every 
June, so on the tenth of ihat June all the money in America 
had buried itself and was as if it were not. Everybody and 
everything was ready to fail. If the hindmost brick went, 
down would go the whole file. 

There were ten Directors of the Dunderbunk Foundry. 

Now, not seldom, of a Board of ten Directors, five are 



LOVE AND SKATES. 93 

wise and five are foolish : five wise, who bag all the Com- 
pany's funds in salaries and commissions for indorsing its 
paper ; five foolish, who get no salaries, no commissions, no 
dividends, — nothing, indeed, but abuse from the stock- 
holders, and the reputation of thieves. That is to say, 
five of the ten are pickpockets ; the other five, pockets to 
be picked. 

It happened that the Dunderbunk Directors were all 
honest and foolish but one. He, John Churm, honest and 
wise, was off at the West, with his Herculean shoulders at 
the wheels of a dead-locked railroad. These honest fellows 
did not wish Dunderbunk to fail for several reasons. First, 
it was not pleasant to lose their investment. Second, one 
important failure might betray Credit to Crisis with Panic 
at its heels, whereupon every investment would be in 
danger. Third, what would become of their Directorial 
reputations? From President Brummage down, each of 
these gentlemen was one of the pockets to be picked in a 
great many companies. Each was of the first Wall-Street 
fashion, invited to lend his name and take stock in every 
new enterprise. Any one of them might have walked down 
town in a long patchwork toga made of the newspaper 
advertisements of boards in which his name proudly figured. 
If Dunderbunk failed, the toga was torn, and might presently 
go to rags beyond repair. The first rent would inaugurate 
universal rupture. How to avoid this disaster ? — that was 
the question. 

" State the case, Mr. Superintendent Whiffler," said Presi- 
dent Brummage, in his pompous manner, with its pomp a 
little collapsed, 'pro tempore. 

Inefficient Whiffler whimpered out his story. 

The confessions of an impotent executive are sorry stuff 
to read. Whiffler's long, dismal complaint shall not be re- 
peated. He had taken a prosperous concern, had carried 
on things in his own way, and now failure was inevita- 



94 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

ble. He had bought raw material lavishly, and worked 
it badly into half-ripe material, which nobody wanted to 
buy. He was in arrears to his hands. He had tried to 
bully them when they asked for their money. They 
had insulted him, and threatened to knock off work, unless 
they were paid at once. " A set of horrid ruffians," Whif- 
fler said, — " and his life would n't be safe many days among 
them." 

" Withdraw, if you please, Mr. Superintendent," President 
Brummage requested. " The Board will discuss measures 
of relief." 

The more they discussed, the more consternation. No- 
body said anything to the purpose, except Mr. Sam Gwelp, 
his late father's lubberly son and successor. 

" Blast ! " said he ; " we shall have to let it slide ! " 

Into this assembly of imbeciles unexpectedly entered Mr. 
John Churm. He had set his Western railroad trains 
rolling, and was just returned to town. Now he was ready 
to put those Herculean shoulders at any other bemired and 
rickety no-go-cart. 

Mr. Churm was not accustomed to be a Director in 
feeble companies. He came into Dunderbunk recently as 
executor of his friend Damer, a year ago bored to death by 
a silly wife. 

Churm's bristly aspect and incisive manner made him a 
sharp contrast to Brummage. The latter personage was 
flabby in flesh, and the oppressively civil counter-jumper 
style of his youth had grown naturally into a deportment of 
most imposing pomposity. 

The Tenth Director listened to the President's recitative 
of their difficulties, chorused by the Board. 

" Gentlemen," said Director Churm, " you want two 
things. The first is Money ! " 

He pronounced this cabalistic word with such magic 
power, that all the air seemed instantly filled with a cheer- 



LOVE AND SKATES. 95 

ful flight of gold American eagles, each carrying a double 
eagle on its back and a silver dollar in its claws ; and all 
the soil of America seemed to sprout with coin, as after a 
shower a meadow sprouts with the yellow buds of the dan- 
delion. 

" Money ! yes. Money ! " murmured the Directors. 

It seemed a word of good omen, now. 

" The second thing," resumed the new-comer, " is a 
Man ! " 

The Directors looked at each other and did not see such 
a being. 

" The actual Superintendent of Dunderbunk is a dunder- 
head," said Churm. 

" Pun ! " cried Sam Gwelp, waking up from a snooze. 

Several of the Directors, thus instructed, started a com- 
plimentary laugh. 

" Order, gentlemen ! Orrderr ! " said the President, severe- 
ly, rapping with a paper-cutter. 

" We must have a Man, not a Whiffler ! " Churm con- 
tinued. "And I have one in my eye." 

Everybody examined his eye. 

" Would you be so good as to name liim ? " said Old 
Brummage, timidly. 

He wanted to see a Man, but feared the strange creature 
might be dangerous. 

" Richard Wade," says Churm. 

They did not know him. The name sounded forcible. 

" He has been in California," the nominator said. 

A shudder ran around the green table. They seemed to 
see a frowzy desperado, shaggy as a bison, in a red shirt 
and jackboots, hung about the waist with an assortment of 
six-shooters and bowie-knives, and standinsi; aa;ainst a back- 
gromid of mustangs, monte-banks, and lynch-law. 

" We must get Wade," Churm says, with authority. 
" He knows Iron by heart. He can handle Men. I will 



96 THEODOEE WINTHROP. 

back him with my blank check, to any amount, to his 
order." 

Here a murmur of applause, swelling to a cheer, burst 
from the Directors. 

Everybody knew that the Geological Bank deemed 
Churm's deposits the fundamental stratum of its wealth. 
They lay there in the vaults, like underlying granite. 
When hot times came, they boiled up in a mountain to 
buttress the world. 

Churm's blank check seemed to wave in the air like an 
oriflamme of victory. Its payee might come from Botany 
Bay; he might wear his beard to his knees, and his belt 
stuck full of howitzers and boomerangs ; he might have 
been repeatedly hung by Vigilance Committees, and as 
often cut down and revived by galvanism ; but brandishing 
that check, good for anything less than a million, every 
Director in Wall Street was his slave, his friend, and his 
brother. 

" Let us vote Mr. Wade in by acclamation," cried the 
Directors. 

" But, gentlemen," Churm interposed, " if I give him my 
blank check, he must have carte blanche, and no one to 
interfere in his management." 

Every Director, from President Brummage down, drew 
a long face at this condition. 

It was one of their great privileges to potter in the Dun- 
derbunk affairs and propose ludicrous impossibilities. 

" Just as you please," Churm continued. " I name a 
competent man, a gentleman and fine fellow. I back him 
with all the cash he wants. But he must have his own 
way. Now take him, or leave him ! " 

Such despotic talk had never been heard before in that 
Directors' Room. They relucted a moment. But they 
thought of their togas of advertisements in danger. The 
blank check shook its blandishments before their eyes. 



LOVE AND SKATES. 97 

" We take him," they said, and Richard Wade was the 
new Superintendent unanimously. 

" He shall be at Dunderbunk to take hold to-morrow 
morning," said Churm, and went off to notify him. 

Upon this. Consternation sailed out of the hearts of 
Brummage and associates. 

They lunched with good appetites over the green table, 
and the President confidently remarked, — 

" I don't believe there is going to be much of a crisis, 
after aU." 

CHAPTER II. 

BARKACKS FOR THE HEKO. 

Wade packed his kit, and took the Hudson River train 
for Dunderbunk the same afternoon. 

He swallowed his dust, he gasped for his fresh air, he 
wept over his cinders, he refused his " lozengers," he was 
admired by all the pretty girls and detested by all the puny 
men in the train, and in good time got down at his station. 

He stopped on the platform to survey the land and water 
privileges of his new abode. 

" The June sunshine is unequalled," he soliloquized, " the 
river is splendid, the hills are pretty, and the Highlands, 
north, respectable ; but the village has gone to seed. Place 
and people look lazy, vicious, and ashamed. I suppose 
those chimneys are my Foundry. The smoke rises as if 
the furnaces were ill-fed and weak in the luno-s. Nothino; 
I can see looks alive, except that queer little steamboat 
coming in, — the ' I. Ambuster,' — jolly name for a boat ! " 

Wade left his traps at the station, and walked through 
the village. All the gilding of a golden sunset of June 
could not made it anything but commonplace. It would be 
forlorn on a gray day, and utterly dismal in a storm. 

" I must look up a civilized house to lodge in," thought 
7 



98 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

the stranger. " I cannot possibly camp at the tavern. Its 
offence is rum, and smells to heaven." 

Presently our explorer found a neat, white, two-story, 
home-like abode on the upper street, overlooking the river. 

" This promises," he thought. " Here are roses on the 
porch, a piano, or at least a melodeon, by the parlor-window, 
and they are insured in the Mutual, as the Mutual's plate 
announces. Now, if that nice-looking person in black I see 
setting a table in the back-room is a widow, I will camp 
here." 

Perry Purtett was the name on the door, and opposite 
the sign of an omnium-gatherum country-store hinted that 
Perry was deceased. The hint was a broad one. Wade 
read, " Ringdove, Successor to late P. Purtett." 

" It 's worth a try to get in here out of the pagan barba- 
rism around. I '11 propose — as a lodger — to the widow." 

So said Wade, and rang the bell under the roses. A 
pretty, slim, delicate, fair-haired maiden answered. 

" This explains the roses and the melodeon," thought 
Wade, and asked, " Can I see your mother ? " 

Mamma came. " Mild, timid, accustomed to depend on 
the late Perry, and wants a friend," Wade analyzed, while 
he bowed. He proposed himself as a lodger. 

" I did n't know it was talked of generally," replied the 
widow, plaintively ; " but I have said that we felt lonesome, 
Mr. Purtett bein' gone, and if the new minister — " 

Here she paused. The cut of Wade's jib was unclerical. 
He did not stoop, like a new minister. He was not pallid, 
meagre, and clad in unwholesome black, like the same. 
His bronzed face was frank and bold and unfamiliar with 
speculations on Original Sin or Total Depravity. 

" I am not the new minister," said Wade, smiling slightly 
over his moustache ; " but a new Superintendent for the 
Foundry." 

" Mr. Whiffler is goin' ? " exclaimed Mrs. Purtett. She 



LOVE AND SKATES. 99 

looked at her daughter, who gave a little sob and ran out of 
the room. 

" What makes my daughter Belle feel . bad " says the 
widow, " is, that she had a friend, — well, it is n't too much 
to say that they was as good as engaged, — and he was 
foreman of the Foundry finishin'-shop. But somehow 
Whiffler spoilt him, just as he spoils everything he touches ; 
and last winter, when Belle was away, William Tarbox — 
that 's his name, and his head is runnin' over with inven- 
tions — ^took to spreein' and liquor, and got ashamed of 
himself, and let down from a foreman to a hand, and is all 
the while lettin' down lower." 

The widow's heart thus opened, Wade walked in as con- 
soler. This also opened the lodgings to him. He was 
presently installed in the large and small front-rooms up- 
stairs, unpacking his traps, and making himself permanently 
at home. 

Superintendent Whiffler came over, by and by, to see his 
successor. He did not like his looks. The new man 
should have looked mean or weak or rascally, to suit the 
outgoer. 

" How long do you expect to stay ? " asks Whiffler, with 
a half-sneer, watching Wade hanging a map and a print 
vis-a-vis. 

" Until the men and I, or the Company and I, cannot 
pull together." 

" I '11 give you a week to quarrel with both, and another 
to see the whole concern go to everlasting smash. And 
now, if you 're ready, I '11 go over the accounts with you 
and prove it." 

Whiffler himself, insolent, cowardly, and a humbug, if not 
a swindler, was enough. Wade thought, to account for any 
failure. But he did not mention this conviction. 



100 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

CHAPTEE III. 

HOW TO BEHEAD A HYDRA ! 

At ten next morning, Whiffler handed over the safe-key 
to Wade, and departed to ruin some other property, if he 
could get one to ruin. Wade walked with him to the 
gate. 

" I 'm glad to be out of a sinking ship," said the ex-boss. 
" The works will go down, sure as shooting. And I think 
myself well out of the clutches of these men. They 're a 
bullying, swearing, drinking set of infernal ruffians. Fore- 
men are just as bad as hands. I never felt safe of my life 
with 'em." 

" A bad lot, are they ? " mused Wade, as he returned to 
the office. " I must give them a little sharp talk by way of 
Inaugural." 

He had the bell tapped and the men called together in 
the main building. 

Much work was still going on in an inefficient, unsyste- 
matic way. 

While hot fires were roaring in the great furnaces, smoke 
rose from the dusty beds where Titanic castings were cool- 
ing. Great cranes, manacled with heavy chains, stood over 
the fiirnace-doors, ready to lift steaming jorums of melted 
metal, and pour out, hot and hot, for the moulds to swallow. 

Raw material in big heaps lay about, waiting for the fire 
to ripen it. Here was a stack of long, rough, rusty pigs, 
clumsy as the shillelahs of the Anakim. There was a pile 
of short, thick masses, lying higgledy-piggledy, stuff from 
the neighboring mines, which needed to be crossed with 
foreign stock before it could be of much use in civiliza- 
tion. 

Here, too, was raw material organized : a fly-wheel, large 
enough to keep the knobbiest of asteroids revolving without 



LOVE AND SKATES. 101 

. a wabble ; a cross-head, cross-tail, and piston-rod, to help a 
great sea-going steamer breast the waves ; a light walking- 
beam, to whirl the paddles of a fast boat on the river ; and 
other members of machines, only asking to be put together 
and vivijfied by steam and they would go at their work with 
a will. 

From the black rafters overhead hung the heavy folds of 
a dim atmosphere, half dust, half smoke. A dozen sun- 
beams, forcing their way through the grimy panes of the 
grimy upper windows, found this compound quite palpable 
and solid, and they moulded out of it a series of golden bars 
set side by side aloft, hke the pipes of an organ out of its 
perpendicular. 

Wade grew indignant, as he looked about him and saw so 
much good stuff and good force wasting for want of a little 
will and skill to train the force and manage the stuff. He 
abhorred bankruptcy and chaos. 

" All they want here is a head," he thought. 

He shook his own. The brain within was well developed 
with healthy exercise. It filled its case, and did not rattle 
like a withered kernel, or sound soft like a rotten one. It 
was a vigorous, muscular brain. The owner felt that he 
could trust it for an effort, as he could his lungs for a shout, 
his legs for a leap, or his fist for a knock-down argument. 

At the tap of the bell, the " bad lot " of men came to- 
gether. They numbered more than two hundred, though 
the Foundry was working short. They had been notified 
that " that gonoph of a Whiffler was kicked out, and a new 
feller was in, who looked cranky enough, and wanted to see 
'em and tell 'em whether he was a damn' fool or not." 

So all hands collected from the different parts of the 
Foundry to see the head. 

They came up with easy and somewhat swaggering bear- 
ing, — a good many roughs, with here and there a ruffian. 
Several, as they approached, swung and tossed, for mere 



102 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

overplus of strength, the sledges with which they had been 
tapping at the bald shiny pates of their anvils. Several 
wielded their long pokers like lances. 

Grimy chaps, all with their faces streaked, like Blackfeet 
in their war-paint. Their hairy chests showed, where some 
men parade elaborate shirt-bosoms. Some had their sleeves 
pushed up to the elbow to exhibit their compact flexors and 
extensors. Some had rolled their flannel up to the shoul- 
der, above the bulging muscles of the upper arm. They 
wore aprons tied about the neck, like the bibs of our child- 
hood, — or about the waist, like the coquettish articles which 
young housewives affect. But there was no coquetry in 
these great flaps of leather or canvas, and they were be- 
smeared and rust-stained quite beyond any bib that ever 
suffered under bread-and-molasses or mud-pie treatment. 

They lounged and swaggered up, and stood at ease, not 
without rough grace, in a sinuous line, coiled and knotted 
like a snake. 

Ten feet back stood the new Hercules who was to take 
down that Hydra's two hundred crests of insubordination. 

They inspected him, and he them as coolly. He read 
and ticketed each man, as he came up, — good, bad, or on 
the fence, — and marked each so that he would know him 
among a myriad. 

The Hands faced the Head. It was a question whether 
the two hundred or the one would be master in Dunderbunk. 

Which was boss ? An old question. It has to be settled 
whenever a new man claims power, and there is always a 
struggle until it is fought out by main force of brain or 
muscle. 

"Wade had made up his mind on this subject. He waited 
a moment until the men were still. He was a Saxon six- 
footer of thirty. He stood easily on his pins, as if he had 
eyed men and facts before. His mouth looked firm, his 
brow freighted, his nose clipper, — that the hands could see. 



LOVE AND SKATES. 103 

But clipper noses are not always backed by a stout hull. 
Seemingly freighted brows sometimes carry nothing but bal- 
last and dunnage. The firmness may be all in the mous- 
tache, while the mouth liides beneath, a mere silly slit. All 
which the hands knew. 

Wade began, short and sharp as a trip-hammer, when it 
has a bar to shape. 

"I'm the new Superintendent. Richard Wade is my 
name. I rang the bell because I wanted to see you and 
have you see me. You know as well as I do that these 
Works are in a bad way. They can't stay so. They must 
come up and pay you regular wages and the Company 
profits. Every man of you has got to be here on the spot 
when the bell strikes, and up to the mark in his work. You 
have n't been, — and you know it. You 've turned out rot- 
ten iron, — stuff that any honest shop would be ashamed of. 
Now there 's to be a new leaf turned over here. You 're to 
be paid on the nail ; but you 've got to earn your money. 
I won't have any idlers or shirkers or rebels about me. I 
shall work hard myself, and every man of you will, or he 
leaves the shop. Now, if anybody has a complaint to make, 
I'll hear him before you all." 

The men were evidently impressed with Wade's Inaugu- 
ral. It meant something. But they were not to be put 
doAvn so easily, after long misrule. There began to be a 
whisper, — 

"B'il in, Bill Tarbox! and talk up to him!" 

Presently Bill shouldered forward and faced the new 
ruler. 

Since Bill took to drink and degradation, he had been the 
but-end of riot and revolt at the Foundry. He had had his 
own way with WhijQBler. He did not like to abdicate and 
give in to this new chap without testing him. 

In a better mood. Bill would have liked Wade's looks 
and words ; but to-day he had a sore head, a sour face, and 



104 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

a bitter heart, from last night's spree. And then he had 
heard, — it was as well known already in Dunderbunk as if 
the town-crier had cried it, — that Wade was lodging at 
Mrs. Purtett's, where poor BiU was excluded. So Bill 
stepped forward as spokesman of the ruffianly element, and 
the immoral force gathered behind and backed him heavily. 

Tarbox, too, was a Saxon six-footer of thirty. But he 
had sagged one inch for want of self-respect. He had 
spoilt his color and dyed his moustache. He wore foxy- 
black pantaloons tucked into red-topped boots, with the 
name of the maker on a gilt shield. His red-flannel shirt 
was open at the neck and caught with a black handkerchief. 
His damaged tile was in permanent crape for the late la- 
mented Poole. 

" We allow," says Bill, in a tone half-way between La- 
blache's De profundis and a burglar's bull-dog's snarl, 
" that we 've did our work as good as need to be did. We 
'xpect we know our rights. We ha'n't ben treated fair, and 
I 'm damned if we 're go'n' to stan' it." 

" Stop ! " says Wade. " No swearing in this shop ! " 

" Who the Devil is go'n' to stop it ? " growled Tarbox. 

" I am. Do you step back now, and let some one come 
out who can talk like a gentleman ! " 

"I'm damned if I stir till I've had my say out," says 
Bill, shaking himself up and looking dangerous. 

"Go back!" 

Wade moved close to him, also looking dangerous. 

" Don't tech me ! " Bill threatened, squaring off. 

He was not quick enough. Wade knocked him down flat 
on a heap of moulding-sand. The hat in mourning for 
Poole found its place in a puddle. 

Bill did not like the new Emperor's method of compel- 
ling hotou. Round One of the mill had not given him 
enough. 

He jumped up from his soft bed and made a vicious rush 



LOVE AND SKATES. 105 

at Wade. But he was damaged by evil courses. He was 
fighting against law and order, on the side of wrong and 
bad manners. 

The same fist met him again, and heavier. 

Up went his heels ! Down went his head ! It struck 
the ragged edge of a fresh casting, and there he lay stunned 
and bleeding on his hard black pillow. 

" Ring the bell to go to work ! " said Wade, in a tone that 
made the ringer jump. " Now, men, take hold and do your 
duty and everything will go smooth ! " 

,The bell clanged in. The line looked at its prostrate 
champion, then at the new boss standing there, cool and 
brave, and not afraid of a regiment of sledge-hammers. 

They wanted an Executive. They wanted to be well 
governed, as all men do. They wanted disorder out and 
order in. The new man looked like a man, talked fair, hit 
hard. Why not all hands give in with a good grace and go 
to work like honest fellows ? 

The line broke up. The hands went off to their duty. 
And there was never any more insubordination at Dunder- 
bunk. 

This was June. 

Skates in the next chapter. 

Love in good time afterward shall glide upon the scene. 



CHAPTER IV. 

A CHRISTMAS GIFT. 

The pioneer sunbeam of next Christmas morning rattled 
over the Dunderbunk hills, flashed into Richard Wade's 
eyes, waked him, and was off, ricochetting across the black 
ice of the river. 

Wade jumped up, electrified and jubilant. He had gone 
to bed feeling quite too despondent for so healthy a fellow. 



106 THEODORE WINTHEOP. 

Christmas eve, tlie time of family meetings, reminded him 
how lonely he was. He ha^ not a relative in the world, 
except two little nieces, — one as tall as his knee, the other 
almost up to his waist ; and them he had safely bestowed in 
a nook of New England, to gain wit and virtues, as they 
gained inches. 

" I have had a stern and lonely life," thought Wade, as 
he blew out his candle last night, " and what has it profited 
me ? " 

Perhaps the pioneer sunbeam answered this question with 
a truism, not always as applicable as in this case, — "A 
brave, able, self-respecting manhood is fair profit for any 
man's first thirty years of life." 

But, answered or not, the question troubled "Wade no 
more. He shot out of bed in tip-top spirits; shouted 
" Merry Christmas ! " at the rising disk of the sun ; looked 
over the black ice ; thrilled with the thought of a long holi- 
day for skating ; and proceeded to dress in a knowing suit 
of rough clothes, singing, "Ah, non giunge I " as he slid into 
them. 

Presently, glancing from his south window, he observed 
several matinal smokes rismg from the chimneys of a 
country-house a mile away, on a slope fronting the river. 

" Peter Skerrett must be back from Europe at last," he 
thought. " I hope he is as fine a fellow as he was ten years 
ago. I hope marriage has not made him a muff, and wealth 
a weakhng." 

Wade went down to breakfast with an heroic appetite. 
His " Merry Christmas " to Mrs. Purtett was followed up 
by a ravished kiss and the gift of a silver butter-knife. 
The good widow did not know which to be most charmed 
with. The butter-knife was genuine, shining, solid silver, 
with her initials, M. B. P., Martha Bilsby Purtett, given in 
luxuriant flourishes ; but then the kiss had such a fine 
twang, such an exhilarating titillation ! The late Perry's 



LOVE AND SKATES. 107 

kisses, from first to last, had wanted point. They were, as 
the Spanish proverb would put it, unsavory as unsalted 
eggs, for want of a moustache. The widow now perceived, 
with mild regret, how much she had missed when she mar- 
ried " a man all shaven and shorn." Her cheek, still fair, 
though forty, flushed with novel delight, and she appreciated 
her lodger more than ever. 

Wade's salutation to Belle Purtett was more distant. 
There must be a little friendly reserve between a hand- 
some young man and a pretty young woman several grades 
lower in the social scale, living in the same house. They 
were on the most cordial terms, however ; and her gift — of 
course embroidered slippers — and his to her — of course 
" The Illustrated Poets," in Turkey morocco — were ex- 
changed with tender good-will on both sides. 

" We shall meet on the ice, Miss Belle," said Wade. " It 
is a day of a thousand for skating." 

" ]\Ir. Ringdove says you are a famous skater," Belle 
rejoined. " He saw you on the river yesterday evening." 

" Yes ; Tarbox and I were practising to exhibit to-day ; 
but I could not do much with my dull old skate S." 

Wade breakfasted deliberately, as a holiday morning 
allowed, and then walked down to the Foundry. There 
would be no work done to-day. except by a small gang 
keeping up the fires. The Superintendent wished only to 
give his First Semi-Annual Report an hour's polishing, 
before he joined all Dunderbunk on the ice. 

It was a halcyon day, worthy of its motto, " Peace on 
earth, good-wiU to men." The air was electric, the sun 
overflowing with jolly shine, the river smooth and sheeny 
from the hither bank to the snowy mountains opposite. 

" I wish I were Rembrandt, to paint this grand shadowy 
interior," thought Wade, as he entered the silent, deserted 
Foundry. " With the gleam of the snow in my eyes, it 
looks deliciously warm and chiaroscuro. When the men 



108 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

are here and ^fervet opus,' — the pot boils, — I cannot stop 
to see the picturesque." 

He opened his office, took his Report and began to com- 
plete it with ,s, ;s, and .s in the right places. 

All at once the bell of the Works rang out loud and 
clear. Presently the Superintendent became aware of a 
tramp and a bustle in the building. By and by came a tap 
at the office-door. 

" Come in," said "Wade, and enter young Perry Purtett. 

Perry was a boy of fifteen, with hair the color of fresh 
sawdust, white eyebrows, and an uncommonly wide-awake 
look. Ringdove, his father's successor, could never teach 
Perry the smirk, the grace, and the seductiveness of the 
counter, so the boy had found his place in the finishing-shop 
of the Foundry. 

" Some of the hands would like to see you for half a 
jiff, Mr. Wade," said he. " Will you come along, if you 
please ? " 

There was a good deal of easy swagger about Perry, as 
there is always in boys and men whose business is to watch 
the lunging of steam-engines. Wade followed him. Perry 
led the way with a jaunty air that said, — 

" Room here ! Out of the way, you lubberly bits of cast- 
iron ! Be careful, now, you big derricks, or I '11 walk right 
over you ! Room now for Me and My suite ! " 

This pompous usher conducted the Superintendent to the 
very spot in the main room of the Works where, six months 
before, the Inaugural had been pronounced and the first 
Veto spoken and enacted. 

And there, as six months before, stood the Hands await- 
ing their Head. But the aprons, the red shirts, and the 
grime of working-days were off, and the whole were in holi- 
day rig, — as black and smooth and shiny from top to toe as 
the members of a Congress of Undertakers. 

Wade, following in the wake of Perry, took his stand 



LOVE AND SKATES. 109 

facing the rank, and waited to see what he was summoned 
for. He had not long to wait- 
To the front stepped Mr. William Tarbox, foreman of the 
finishing-shop, no longer a bhoy, but an erect, fine-looking 
fellow, with no nitrate in his moustache, and his hat perma- 
nently out of mourning for the late Mr. Poole. 

" Gentlemen," said Bill, " I move that tliis meeting organ- 
ize by appointing Mr. Smith Wheelright Chairman. As 
many as are in favor of this motion, please to say, ' Ay.' " 

" Ay ! " said the crowd, very loud and big. And then 
every man looked at his neighbor a little abashed, as if he 
himself had made all the noise. 

" This is a free country," continues Bill. " Every woter 
has a right to a fair shake. Contrary minds, ' No.' " 

No contrary minds. The crowd uttered a great silence. 
Every man looked at his neighbor, surprised to find how 
well they agreed. 

" Unanimous ! " Tarbox pronounced. " No fractious mi- 
norities here, to block the wheels of legislation ! " 

The crowd burst into a roar at this significant remark, and, 
again abashed, dropped portcullis on its laughter, cutting off 
the flanks and tail of the sound. 

" Mr. Purtett, will you please conduct the Chairman to 
the Chair," says Bill, very stately. 

" Make way here ! " cried Perry, with the manner of a 
man seven feet high. " Step out now, Mr. Chairman ! " 

He took a big, grizzled, docile-looking fellow patro- 
nizingly by the arm, led him forward, and chaired him on 
a large cylinder-head, in the rough, just hatched out of its 
mould. 

" Bang away with that, and sing out ' Silence ! ' " says the 
knowing boy, handing Wheelright an iron bolt, and taking 
his place beside him as prompter. 

The docile Chairman obeyed. At his brealdng silence by 
hooting " Silence ! " the audience had another mighty bob- 
tailed laugh. 



110 THEODOEE WINTHROP. 

" Say, ' Will some honorable member state the object of 
this meeting ? ' " whispered the prompter. 

" Will some honorable mumbler state the subject of this 
*ere meetin' ? " says Chair, a little bashful and confused. 

Bill Tarbox advanced, and, with a formal bow, began, — 

"Mr. Chairman — " 

"Say, ']Mi\ Tarbox has the floor,'" piped Perry. 

" Mr. Tarbox has the floor," diapasoned the Chair. 

" Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen — " Bill began, and 
stopped. 

" Say, ' Proceed, Sir ! ' " suggested Perry, which the 
senior did, magnifying the boy's whisper a dozen times. 

Again Bill began and stopped. 

" Boys," said he, dropping grandiloquence, " when I 
accepted the office of Orator of the Day at our primary, 
and promised to bring forward our Resolutions in honor of 
Mr.' Wade with my best speech, I did n't think I was 
going to have such a head of steam on that the waives 
would get stuck and the piston jammed and I couldn't 
say a word. 

" But," he continued, warming up, " when I think of the 
Indian powwow we had in this very spot six months ago, — 
and what a mean bloat I was, going to the stub-tail dogs 
with my hat over my eyes, — and what a hard lot we were 
all round, livin' on nothin' but argee whiskey, and rampin' 
off" on benders, instead of makin' good iron, — and how the 
Works was flat broke, — and how Dunderbunk was full of 
women crying over their husbands and mothers ashamed of 
their sons, — boys, when I think how things was, and see 
how they are, and look at ISIi. Wade standing there like 
a — " 

Bill hesitated for a comparison. 

"Like a thousand of brick," Perry Purtett suggested, 
sotto voce. 

The Chairman took this as a hint to himself. ' 



LOVE AND SKATES. Ill 

" Like a thousand of brick," he said, with the voice of a 
Stentor. 

Here the audience roared and cheered, and the Orator 
got a fresh start. 

" When you came, Mr. Wade," he resumed, " we was 
about sick of putty-heads and sneaks that didn't know 
enough or did n't dare to make us stand round and bone 
in. You walked in, b'ilin' over with grit. You took hold 
as if you belonged here. You made things jump like a 
two-headed tarrier. All we wanted was a live man, to say, 
' Here, boys, all together now ! You 've got your stint, and 
I 've got mine. I 'm boss in this shop, — but I can't do the 
first thing, unless every man pulls his pound. Now, then, 
my hand is on the throttle, grease the wheels, oil the waives, 
poke the fires, hook on, and let 's yank her through with a 
will!'" 

At this figure the meeting showed a tendency to cheer. 
" Silence ! " Perry sternly suggested. " Silence ! " repeated 
the Chair. 

" Then," continued the Orator, " you was n't one of the 
uneasy kind, always fussin' and cussin' round. You was n't 
always spyin' to see we did n't take home a cross-tail or a 
hundred-weight of cast-iron in our pants' pockets, or go to 
swiggin' hot metal out of the ladles on the sly." 

Here an enormous laugh requited Bill's joke. Perry 
prompted, the Chair banged with his bolt and cried, 
"Order!" 

" Well, now, boys," Tarbox went on, " what has come of 
having one of the right sort to be boss ? Why, this. The 
Works go ahead, stiddy as the North River. We work full 
time and full-handed. We turn out stuff that no shop 
needs to be ashamed of. Wages is on the nail. We have 
a good time generally. How is that, boys, — ]Mr. Chair- 
man and Gentlemen?" 

" That 's so ! " from everybody. 



112 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

" And there 's sometMng better yet," Bill resumed. 
" Dunderbunk used to be full of crying women. They 've 
stopped crying now." 

Here the whole assemblage, Chairman and all, burst into 
an irrepressible cheer. 

" But I 'm making my speech as long as a lightning-rod," 
said the speaker. " I '11 put on the brakes, short. I guess 
Mr. Wade understands pretty well, now, how we feel ; and 
if he don't, here it all is in shape, in this document, with 
* Whereas ' at the top and ^ Resolved ' entered along down 
in five places. Mr. Purtett, will you hand the Resolutions 
to the Superintendent?" 

Perry advanced and did his office loftily, much to the 
amusement of Wade and the workmen. 

" Now," Bill resumed, " we wanted, besides, to make you 
a little gift, Mr. Wade, to remember the day by. So we got 
up a subscription, and every man put in his dime. Here 's 
the present, — hand 'em over, Perry ! 

" There, Sir, is The Best Pair of Skates to be had in 
York City, made for work, and no nonsense about 'em. 
We Dunderbunk boys give 'em to you, one for all, and hope 
you '11 like 'em and beat the world skating, as you do in all 
the things we 've knowed you try. 

"Now, boys," Bill perorated, "before I retire to the 
shades of private life, I motion we give Three Cheers, — 
regular Toplifters, — for Richard Wade ! " 

" Hurrah ! Wade and Good Government ! " " Hurrah ! 
Wade and Prosperity ! " " Hurrah ! Wade and the Women's 
Tears Dry ! " 

Cheers lil?:e the shout of Achilles ! Wielding sledo-es is 
good for the bellows, it appears. Tophfters! Why, the 
smoky black rafters overhead had to tug hard to hold the 
roof on. Hurrah ! From every corner of the vast build- 
ing came back rattling echoes. The Works, the machinery, 
the furnaces, the stuff, all had their voice to add to the 
verdict. 



LOVE AND SKATES. 113 

Magnificent music ! and our Anglo-Saxon is the onij race 
in the world civilized enough to join in singing it. We are 
the only hurrahing people, — the only brood hatched in a 
" Hurrah's nest." 

Silence restored, the Chairman, prompted by Perry, said, 
" Gentlemen, Mr. Wade has the floor for a few remarks." 

Of course Wade had to speak, and did. He would not 
have been an American in America else. But his heart 
was too full to say more than a few hearty and earnest 
words of good feeling. 

" Now, men," he closed, " I want to get away on the river 
and see if my skates will go as they look ; so I '11 end by 
proposing three cheers for Smith Wheelwright, our Chair- 
man, three for our Orator, Tarbox, three for Old Dunder- 
bunk, — Works, Men, Women, and Children ; and one big 
cheer for Old Father Iron, as rousing a cheer as ever was 
roared." 

So they gave their three times three with enormous en- 
thusiasm. The roof shook, the furnaces rattled. Perry 
Purtett banged with the Chairman's hammer, the great 
echoes thundered through the Foundry. 

And when they ended with one gigantic cheer for IRON, 
tough and true, the weapon, the tool, and the engine of all 
civilization, — it seemed as if the uproar would never cease 
until Father Iron himself heard the call in his smithy away 
under the magnetic pole, and came clanking up to return 
thanks in person. 

CHAPTER V. 

SKATING AS A TINE ART. 

Of all the plays that are played by this playful world on 
its play-days, there is no play like Skating. 

To prepare a board for the moves of this game of games, 
a panel for the drawings of this Fine Art, a stage for the 
8 



114 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

entrechats and pirouettes of its graceful adepts, Zero, magi- 
cal artificer, had been, for the last two nights, sliding at full 
speed up and down the North River. 

We have heard of Midas, whose touch made gold, and of 
the virgin under whose feet sprang roses ; but Zero's heels 
and toes were armed with more precious influences. They 
left a diamond way, where they slid, — a hundred and fifty 
miles of diamond, half a mile wide and six inches thick. 

Diamond can only reflect sunlight ; ice can contain it. 
Zero's product, finer even than diamond, was filled, — at the 
rate of a million to the square foot, — with bubbles im- 
measurably little, and yet every one big enough to comprise 
the entire sun in small, but without alteration or abridg- 
ment. When the sun rose, each of these wonderful cells 
was ready to catch the tip of a sunbeam and house it in a 
shining abode. 

Besides this. Zero had inlaid his work, all along shore, 
with exquisite marquetry of leaves, brown and evergreen, 
of sprays and twigs, reeds and grasses. No parquet in any 
palace from Fontainebleau to St. Petersburg could show 
such delicate patterns, or could gleam so brightly, though 
polished with all the wax in Christendom. 

On this fine pavement, all the way from Cohoes to Spuy- 
ten Duyvil, Jubilee was sliding without friction, the Christ- 
mas morning of these adventures. 

Navigation was closed. Navigators had leisure. The 
sloops and schooners were frozen in along shore, the tugs 
and barges were laid up in basins, the floating palaces were 
down at New York, deodorizing their bar-rooms, regilding. 
their bridal chambers, and enlarging their spittoon accom- 
modations alow and aloft, for next summer. All the pop- 
ulation was out on the ice, skating, sliding, sledding, slipping, 
tumbling, to its heart's content. 

One person out of every Dunderbunk family was of 
course at home, roasting Christmas turkey. The rest were 



LOVE AND SKATES. 115 

already at high jinks on Zero's Christmas present, when 
Wade and the men came down from the meeting. 

Wade buckled on his new skates in a jifFy. He stamped 
to settle himself, and then flung off half a dozen circles on 
the right leg, half a dozen with the left, and the same with 
either leg backwards. 

The ice, traced with these white peripheries, showed like 
a blackboard where a school has been chalking diagrams of 
Euclid, to point at with the " slow unyielding finger " of 
demonstration. 

" Hurrah ! " cries Wade, halting in front of the men, who, 
some on the Foundry wharf, some on the deck of our first 
acquaintance at Dunderbunk, the tug " I. Ambuster," were 
putting on their skates or watching him. "Hurrah! the 
skates are perfection ! Are you ready, Bill ? " 

"Yes," says Tarbox, whizzing off rings, as exact as 
Giotto's autograph. 

" Now, then," Wade said, " we '11 give Dunderbunk a 
laugh, as we practised last night." 

They got under full headway. Wade backwards. Bill for- 
wards, holding hands. When they were near enough to the 
merry throng out in the stream, both dropped into a sitting 
posture, with the left knee bent, and each with his right leg 
stretched out parallel to the ice and fitting compactly by the 
other man's leg. In tliis queer figure they rushed thi'ough 
the laughing crowd. 

Then all Dunderbunk formed a ring, agog for a grand 
show of 

Skating as a Fine Art. 

The world loves to see Great Artists, and expects them 
to do their duty. 

It is hard to treat of this Fine Art by the Ai't of Fine 
Writing. Its eloquent motions must be seen. 

To skate Fine Art, you must have a Body and a Soul, 



116 THEODOEE WINTHEOP. 

each of the First Order ; otherwise you will never get out 
of coarse art and skating in one syllable. So much for 
yourself, the motive power. And your machinery, — your 
smooth-bottomed rockers, the same shape stem and stern, — 
this must be as perfect as the man it moves, and who 
moves it. 

Now suppose you wish to skate so that critics will say, 
" See ! this athlete does his work as Church paints, as Dar- 
ley draws, as Palmer chisels, as Whittier strikes the lyre, 
and Longfellow the dulcimer ; he is as terse as Emerson, as 
clever as Holmes, as graceful as Curtis ; he is as calm as 
Seward, as keen as Phillips, as stalwart as Beecher ; he is 
Garabaldi, he is Kit Carson, he is Blondin ; he is as com- 
plete as the steamboat Metropolis, as Steers's yacht, as 
Singer's sewing-machine, as Colt's revolver, as the steam- 
plough, as Civilization." You wish to be so ranked among 
the people and things that lead the age ; — consider the 
qualities you must have, and while you consider, keep your 
eye on Richard Wade, for he has them all in perfection. 

First, — of your physical qualities. You must have lungs, 
not bellows ; and an active heart, not an assortment of slug- 
gish auricles and ventricles. You must have legs, not shanks. 
Their shape is unimportant, except that they must not inter- 
fere at the knee. You must have muscles, not flabbiness ; 
sinews like wire ; nerves like sunbeams ; and a thin layer 
of flesh to cushion the gable-ends, where you will strike, if 
you tumble, — which, once for all be it said, you must never 
do. You must be all momentum, and no inertia. You must 
be one part grace, one force, one agility, and the rest caout- 
chouc, Manilla hemp, and watch-spring. Your machine, 
your body, must be thoroughly obedient. It must go just so 
far and no farther. You have got to be as unerring as a 
planet holding its own, emphatically, between forces centrip- 
etal and centrifugal. Your aplomh must be as absolute as 
the pounce of a falcon. 



LOVE AND SKATES. 117 

So much for a few of the physical qualities necessary to 
be a Great Artist in Skating. See Wade, how he shows 
them ! 

Now for the moral and intellectual. Pluck is the first ; — 
it always is the first quality. Then enthusiasm. Then pa- 
tience. Then pertinacity. Then a fine aesthetic faculty, — 
in short, good taste. Then an orderly and submissive mind, 
that can consent to act in accordance with the laws of Art. 
Circumstances, too, must have been reasonably favorable. 
That well-known sceptic, the King of tropical Bantam, 
could not skate, because he had never seen ice and doubted 
even the existence of solid water. Widdrington, after the 
Battle of Chevy Chace, could not have skated, because 
he had no legs, — poor fellow ! 

But granted the ice and the legs, then if you begin in the 
elastic days of youth, when cold does not sting, tumbles do 
not bruise, and duckings do not wet ; if you have pluck and 
ardor enough to try everything ; if you work slowly ahead 
and stick to it ; if you have good taste and a lively inven- 
tion ; if you are a man, and not a lubber ; — then, in fine, 
you may become a Great Skater, just as with equal power 
and equal pains you may put your grip on any kind of 
Greatness. 

The technology of skating is imperfect. Few of the great 
feats, the Big Things, have admitted names. If I attempted 
to catalogue Wade's achievements, this chapter might be- 
come an unintelligible rhapsody. A sheet of paper and a 
pen-point cannot supply the place of a sheet of ice and a 
skate-edge. Geometry must have its diagrams, Anatomy 
its corpus to cai*ve. Skating also refuses to be spiritualized 
into a Science ; it remains an Ai't, and cannot be expressed 
in a formula. 

Skating has its Little Go, its Great Go, its Baccalau- 
reate, its M. A., its F. S. D. (Doctor of Frantic Skipping), 
its A. G. D. (Doctor of Airy Gliding), its N. T. D. (Doctor 



118 THEODORE WINTER OP. 

of No Tumbles), and finally its highest degree, U. P. (Un- 
approachable Podographer). 

Wade was U. P. 

There were a hundred of Dunderbunkers who had passed 
their Little Go and could skate forward and backward easily. 
A half-hundred, perhaps, were through the Great Go ; these 
could do outer edge freely. A dozen had taken the Bacca- 
laureate, and were proudly repeating the pirouettes and 
spread-eagles of that degree. A few could cross their feet, 
on the edge, forward and backward, and shift edge on the 
same foot, and so were Magistri Artis. 

Wade, U. P., added to these an indefinite list of combina- 
tions and fresh contrivances. He spun spirals slow, and 
spirals neck or nothing. He pivoted on one toe, with the 
other foot cutting rings, inner and outer edge, forward and 
back. He skated on one foot better than the M. A.s could 
on both. He ran on his toes ; he slid on his heels ; he cut 
up shines like a sunbeam on a bender ; he swung, light as 
if he could fly, if he pleased, like a wing-footed Mercury ; 
he glided, as if will, not muscle, moved him ; he tore about 
in frenzies ; his pivotal leg stood firm, his balance leg flapped 
like a graceful pinion ; he turned somersets ; he jumped, 
whirling backward as he went, over a platoon of boys laid 
flat on the ice ; — the last boy winced, and thought he was 
amputated; but Wade flew over, and the boy still holds 
together as well as most boys. Besides this, he could write 
his name, with a flourish at the end, Hke the ruhrica of a 
Spanish hidalgo. He could podograph any letter, and mul- 
titudes of ingenious curlicues which might pass for the 
alphabets of the unknown tongues. He could not tumble. 

It was Fine Art. 

Bill Tarbox sometimes pressed the champion hard. But 
Bill stopped just short of Fine Art, in High Artisanship. 

How Dunderbunk cheered this wondrous display ! How 
delighted the whole population was to believe they possessed 



LOVE AND SKATES. 119 

the best skater on the North River ! How they struggled 
to imitate ! How they tumbled, some on their backs, some 
on their faces, some with dignity like the dying Caesar, some 
rebelliously like a cat thrown out of a garret, some limp as 
an ancient acrobate ! How they laughed at themselves and 
at each other ! 

" It 's all in the new skates," says Wade, apologizing for 
his unapproachable power and Jfinish. 

" It 's suthin' in the man," says Smith Wheelwright. 

" Now chase me, everybody," said Wade. 

And, for a quarter of an hour, he dodged the merry crowd, 
until, at last, breathless, he let himself be touched by pretty 
Belle Purtett, rosiest of all the Dunderbunk bevy of rosy 
maidens on the ice. 

" He rayther beats Besting," says Captain Isaac Ambus- 
ter to Smith Wheelwright. " It 's so cold there that they 
can skate all the year round ; but he beats them, all the 
same." 

The Captain was sitting in a queer little bowl of a skiff 
on the deck of his tug, and rocking it like a cradle, as he 
talked. 

" Besting 's always hard to beat in anything," rejoined the 
ex- Chairman. " But if Bosting is to be beat, here 's the 
man to do it." 

And now, perhaps, gentle reader, you think I have said 
enough in behalf of a limited fraternity, the Skaters. 

The next chapter, then, shall take up the cause of the 
Lovers, a more numerous body, and we will see whether 
True Love, which never makes " smooth running," can help 
its progress by a skate-blade. 



120 THEODORE WINTHEOP. 

CHAPTEE VI. 

"GO NOT, HAPPY DAT, TILL THE MAIDEN YIELDS." 

Christmas noon at Dunderbunk, every skater was in 
galloping glee, — as the electric air and the sparkling 
sun and the glinting ice had a right to expect they all 
should be. 

Belle Purtett, skating simply and well, had never looked 
so pretty and graceful. So thought Bill Tarbox. 

He had not spoken to her, nor she to liim, for more than 
six months. The poor fellow was ashamed of himself and 
penitent for his past bad courses. And so, though he longed 
to have his old flame recognize him again, and though he 
was bitterly jealous and miserably afraid he should lose 
her, he had kept away and consumed his heart like a true 
despairing lover. 

But to-day Bill was a lion, only second to Wade, the 
unapproachable lion-in-chief. Bill was reinstated in public 
esteem, and had won back his standing in the Foundry. He 
had to-day made a speech which Perry Purtett gave every- 
body to understand "none of Senator Bill Seward's could 
hold the tallow to." Getting up the meeting and present- 
ing Wade with the skates was Bill's own scheme, and it 
had turned out an eminent success. Everything began to 
look bright to him. His past life drifted out of his mind 
like the rowdy tales he used to read in the Sunday news- 
papers. 

He had watched Belle Purtett all the morning, and saw 
that she distinguished nobody with her smiles, not even that 
coq du village, Ringdove. He also observed that she was 
furtively watching him. 

By and by she sailed out of the crowd, and went off a 
h'ttle way to practise. 

" Now," said he to himself, " sail in, Bill Tarbox ! " 



LOVE AND SKATES. 121 

Belle heard the sharp strokes of a powerful skater coming 
after her. Her heart divined who this might be. She sped 
away like the swift Camilla, and her modest drapery showed 
just enough and " ne quid nimis " of her ankles. 

Bill admired the grace and the ankles immensely. But 
his hopes sank a little at the flight, — for he thought she 
perceived his chase and meant to drop him. Bill had not 
had a classical education, and knew nothing of Galatea in 
the Eclogue, — how she did not hide until she saw her 
swain was looking fondly after. 

" She wants to get away," he thought. " But she sha'n't, 
— no, not if I have to follow her to Albany." 

He struck out mightily. Presently the swift Camilla let 
herself be overtaken. 

" Good morning. Miss Purtett." (Dogged air.) 

" Good morning, Mr. Tarbox." (Taken-by-sui-prise air.) 

" I 've been admiring your skating," says Bill, trying to 
be cool. 

" Have you ? " rejoins Belle, very cool and distant. 

" Have you been long on the ice ? " he inquired, hypo- 
critically. 

" I came on two hours ago with Mr. Ringdove and the 
girls," returned she, with a twinkle which said, " Take that, 
sir, for pretending you did not see me." 

" You 've seen Mr. Wade skate, then," Bill said, ignoiing 
Ringdove. 

" Yes ; is n't it splendid ? " Belle replied, kindling. 

" Tip-top ! " 

" But then he does everytliing better than anybody.'* 

" So he does ! " Bill said, — true to his friend, and yet 
beginning to be jealous of this enthusiasm. It was not the 
first time he had been jealous of Wade ; but he had quelled 
his fears, like a good fellow. 

Belle perceived Bill's jealousy, and could have cried for 
joy. She had known as little of her once lover's heart as 



122 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

he of hers. She only knew that he stopped coming to see 
her when he fell, and had not renewed his visits now that 
he was risen again. If she had not been charmingly ruddy 
with the brisk air and exercise, she would have betrayed 
her pleasure at Bill's jealousy with a fine blush. 

The sense of recovered power made her wish to use it 
again. She must tease him a little. So she continued, as 
they skated on in good rhythm, — 

" Mother and I would n't know what to do without Mr. 
"Wade. We like him so much," — said ardently. 

"What Bill feared was true, then, he thought. "Wade, 
noble fellow, worthy to win any woman's heart, had fasci- 
nated his landlady's daughter. 

" I don't wonder you like him," said he. " He deserves 
it." 

Belle was touched by her old lover's forlorn tone. 

" He does indeed," she said. " He has helped and 
taught us all so much. He has taken such good care of 
Perry. And then " — here she gave her companion a 
little look and a Httle smile — " he speaks so kindly of you, 
Mr. Tarbox." 

Smile, look, and words electrified Bill. He gave such a 
spring on his skates that he shot far ahead of the lady. He 
brought himself back with a sharp turn. 

" He has done kinder than he can speak," says Bill. 
" He has made a man of me again. Miss Belle." 

" I know it. It makes me very happy to hear you able 
to say so of yourself." She spoke gravely. 

" Very happy " — about anything that concerned him ? 
Bill had to work off his over-joy at this by an exuberant 
flourish. He whisked about Belle, — outer edge backward. 
She stopped to admire. He finished by describing on the 
virgin ice, before her, the letters B. P., in his neatest style 
of podography, — easy letters to make, luckily. 

" Beautiful ! " exclaimed Belle. " What are those let- 
ters ? Oh ! B. P. ! What do they stand for ? " 



LOVE AND SKATES. 123 

« Guess ! " 

" I 'm so dull," said she, looking bright as a diamond. 
" Let me think ! B. P. ? British Poets, perhaps." 

" Try nearer home ! " 

" What are you likely to be thinking of that begins with 
B. P. ? — 0, I know ! Boiler Plates ! " 

She looked at him, — innocent as a lamb. Bill looked 
at her, delighted with her little coquetry. A woman 
without coquetry is insipid as a rose without scent, as 
Champagne without bubbles, or as corned beef without 
mustard. 

" It 's something I 'm thinking of most of the time," says 
he ; " but I hope it 's softer than Boiler Plates. B. P. 
stands for Miss Isabella Purtett." 

" Oh ! " says Belle, and she skated on in silence. 

" You came down with Alonzo Ringdove ? " Bill 
asked, suddenly, aware of another pang after a moment 
of peace. 

" He came with me and his sisters," she replied. 

Yes ; poor Ringdove had dressed himself in his shiniest 
black, put on his brightest patent-leather boots, with his 
new swan-necked skates newly strapped over them, and 
wore his new dove-colored overcoat with the long skirts, on 
purpose to be lovely m the eyes of Belle on this occasion. 
Alas, in vain ! 

" Mr. Ringdove is a great friend of yours, is n't he ? " 

" If you ever came to see me now, you would know who 
my friends are, Mr. Tarbox." 

" Would you be my friend again, if I came, JMiss 
Belle ? " 

"Again? I have always been so, — always, BiU." 

" Well, then, something more than my friend, — now that 
I am trying to be worthy of more, Belle ? " 

" What more can I be ? " she said, softly. 

« My wife." 



124 THEODOEE WINTHEOP. 

She curved to the right. He followed. To the left. He 
was not to be shaken off. 

" Will you promise me not to say waives instead of valves, 
Bill ? " she said, looking pretty and saucy as could be. " I 
know, to say W for Y is fashionable in the iron business ; 
but I don't like it." 

" What a thing a woman is to dodge ? " says Bill. " Sup- 
pose I told you that men brought up inside of boilers, 
hammering on the inside against twenty hammering like 
Wulcans on the outside, get their ears so dumfounded that 
they can't tell whether they are saying valves or waives, 
wice or virtue, — suppose I told you that, — what would 
you say. Belle ? " 

" Perhaps I 'd say that you pronounce virtue so well, and 
act it so sincerely, that I can't make any objection to your 
other words. If you 'd asked me to be your vife, Bill, I 
might have said I did n't understand ; but wife I do under- 
stand, and I say — " 

She nodded, and tried to skate off. Bill stuck close to 
her side. 

" Is this true. Belle ? " he said, almost doubtfully. 

"True as truth!" 

She put out her hand. He took it, and they skated on 
together, — hearts beating to the rhythm of their move- 
ments. The uproar and merriment of the village came only 
faintly to them. It seemed as if all Nature was hushed to 
listen to their plighted troth, their words of love renewed, 
more earnest for long suppression. The beautiful ice spread 
before them, like their life to come, a pathway untouched 
by any sorrowful or weary footstep. The blue sky was 
cloudless. The keen air stirred the pulses like the vapor 
of frozen wine. The benignant mountains westward kindly 
surveyed the happy pair, and the sun seemed created to 
warm and cheer them. 

" And you forgive me. Belle ? " said the lover. " I feel 



LOVE AND SKATES. 125 

as if I had only gone bad to make me know how much 
better going right is." 

" I always knew you would jSnd it out. I never stopped 
hoping and praying for it." 

" That must have been what brought Mr. Wade here." 

" Oh, I did hate him so, Bill, when I heard of something 
that happened between you and him ! I thought him a 
brute and a tyrant. I never could get over it, until he told 
mother that you were the best machinist he ever knew, and 
would some time grow to be a great inventor." 

" I 'm glad you hated him. I suffered rattlesnakes and 
collapsed flues for fear you 'd go and love him." 

" My affections were engaged," she said with simple 
seriousness. 

" Oh, if I 'd only thought so long ago ! How lovely you 
are ! " exclaims Bill, in an ecstasy. " And how refined ! 
And how good ! God bless you ! " 

He made up such a wishful mouth, — so wishful for one 
of the pleasurable duties of mouths, that BeUe blushed, 
laughed, and looked down, and as she did so saw that one 
of her straps was trailing. 

" Please fix it, Bill," she said, stopping and kneeling. 

Bill also knelt, and his wishful mouth immediately took 
its chance. ' 

A manly smack and sweet little feminine chirp sounded 
as their lips met. 

Boom ! twanging gay as the first tap of a marriage-bell, 
a loud crack in the ice rang musically for leagues up and 
down the river. " Bravo ! " it seemed to say. " Well done. 
Bill Tarbox ! Try agaui ! " Which the happy fellow did, 
and the happy maiden permitted. 

" Now," said Bill, " let us go and hug Mr. Wade ! " 

« What ! Both of us ? " Belle protested. " ]\Ir. Tarbox, 
I am ashamed of you ! " 



126 THEODORE WINTHEOP. 



CHAPTER VII. 

WADE DOWN. 

The hugging of Wade by tlie happy pair had to be done 
metaphorically, since it was done in the sight of all Dunder- 
bunk. 

He had divined a happy result when he missed Bill Tar- 
box from the arena, and saw him a furlong away, hand in 
hand with his reconciled sweetheart. 

" I envy you. Bill," said he, " almost too much to put 
proper fervor into my congratulations." 

" Your time will come," the foreman rejoined. 

And says Belle, " I am sure there is a lady skating some- 
where, and only waiting for you to follow her." 

" I don't see her," Wade replied, looking with a mock- 
grave face up and down and athwart the river. " When 
you 've all gone to dinner, I '11 prospect ten miles up and 
down, and try to find a good matrimonial claim that 's not 
taken." 

" You will not come up to dinner ? " Belle asked. 

" I can hardly afibrd to make two bites of a holiday," 
said Wade. " I 've sent Perry up for a luncheon. Here 
he comes with it. So I cede my quarter of your pie, Miss 
Belle, to a better fellow." 

'" Oh ! " cries Perry, coming up and bowing elaborately. 
"Mr. and Mrs. Tarbox, I believe. Ah, yes! Well, I 
will mention it up at Albany. I am going to take my 
Guards up to call on the Governor." 

Perry dashed off, followed by a score of Dunderbunk 
boys, organized by him as the Purtett Guards, and taught 
to salute him as Generalissimo with military honors. 

So many hundreds of turkeys, done to a turn, now began 
to have an effect upon the atmosphere. Few odors are 
more subtile and pervading than this, and few more appetiz- 



LOVE AND SKATES. 127 

ing. Indeed, there is said to be an odd fellow, a strictly 
American gourmand, in New York, who sits from noon to 
dusk on Christmas day up in a tall steeple, merely to catch 
the aroma of roast-turkey floating over the city, — and 
much good, it is said, it does him. 

Hard skating is nearly as effective to whet hunger as this 
gentleman's expedient. When the spicy breezes began to 
blow soft as those of Ceylon's isle over the river and every 
whiff talked Turkey, the population of Dunderbunk listened 
to the wooing and began to follow its several noses — snubs, 
beaks, blunts, sharps, piquants, dominants, fines, bulgies, and 
bifids — on the way to the several households which those 
noses adorned or defaced. Prosperous Dunderbunk had a 
Dinner, yes, a Dinner, that day, and Richard Wade was 
gratefully remembered by many over-fed foundry-men and 
their over-fed families. 

Wade had not had half skating enough. 

" I '11 time myself down to Skerrett's Point," he thought, 
" and take my luncheon there among the hemlocks." 

The Point was on the property of Peter Skerrett, Wade's 
friend and college comrade of ten years gone. Peter had 
been an absentee in Europe, and smokes from his cliimneys 
this morning had confirmed to Wade's eyes the rumor of his 
return. 

Skerrett's Point was a mile below the Foundry. Our 
hero did his mile under three minutes. How many seconds 
under, I will not say. I do not wish to make other fellows 
unhappy. 

The Point was a favorite spot of Wade's. Many a twi- 
light of last summer, tired with his fagging at the Works to 
make good the evil of Wliiffler's rule, he had lain there on 
the rocks under the hemlocks, breathing the spicy methyl 
they poured into the air. After liis day's hard fight, in the 
dust and heat of the Foundry, with anarchy and unthrift, he 
used to take the quiet restoratives of Nature, until the mur- 



128 THEODOEE WINTHEOP. 

mur and fragrance of the woods, the cool wind, and the 
soothing loiter of the shining stream had purged him from 
the fevers of his task. 

To this old haunt he skated, and kindling a little jQre, as 
an old campaigner loves to do, he sat down and lunched 
heartily on Mrs. Purtett's cold leg, — cannibal thought ! — 
on the cold leg of Mrs. Purtett's yesterday's turkey. Then 
lighting his weed, — dear ally of the lonely, — the Superin- 
tendent began to think of his foreman's bliss, and to long for 
something similar on his own plane. 

"I hope the wish is father to its fulfilment," he said. 
" But I must not stop here and be spooney. Such a halcyon 
day I may not have again in all my life, and I ought to make 
the best of it with my New Skates." 

So he dashed off, and filled the little cove 'above the Point 
with a labyrinth of curves and flourishes. 

When that bit of crystal tablet was well covered, the 
podographer sighed for a new sheet to inscribe his intricate 
rubricas upon. Why not write more stanzas of the poetry 
of motion on the ice below the Point ? Why not ? 

Braced by his lunch on the brown fibre of good Mrs. 
Purtett's cold drumstick and thigh. Wade was now in fine 
trim. The air was more glittering and electric than ever. 
It was triumph and victory and paean in action to go flashing 
along over this footing, smoother than polished marble and 
sheenier than first-water gems. 

Wade felt the high exhilaration of pure blood galloping 
through a body alive from top to toe. The rhythm of his 
movement was hke music to him. 

The Point ended in a sharp promontory. Just before he 
came abreast of it. Wade under mighty headway flung into 
his favorite corkscrew spiral on one foot, and went whirling 
dizzily along, round and round, in a straight line. 

At the dizziest moment, he was suddenly aware of a figm^e 
also turning the Point at full speed, and rushing to a col- 
lision. 



LOVE AND SKATES. 129 

He jerked aside to avoid it. He could not look to his 
footing. His skate struck a broken oar, imbedded in the 
ice. He fell violently, and lay like a dead man. 

His New Skates, Testimonial of Merit, seem to have 
served him a shabby trick. 



CHAPTER VIII. 
t:^te-A-t:^te. 

Seeing- "Wade lie there motionless, the lady — 

Took off her spectacles, blew her great red nose, and 
stiffly drew near. 

Spectacles ! Nose ! No, — the latter feature of hers had 
never become acquainted with the former ; and there was as 
little stiffness as nasal redness about her. 

A fresh start, then, — and this time accuracy ! 

Appalled by the loud thump of the stranger's skull upon 
the chief river of the State of New York, the lady — it was 
a young lady whom Wade had tumbled to avoid — turned, 
saw a human being lying motionless, and swept gracefully 
toward him, like a Good Samaritan, on the outer edge. It 
was not her fault, but her destiny, that she had to be grace- 
ful even under these tragic circumstances. 

« Dead ! " she thought. " Is he dead ? " 

The appalling thump had cracked the ice, and she could 
not know how well the skull was cushioned inside with 
brains to resist a blow. 

She shuddered as she swooped about toward this possible 
corpse. It might be that he was killed, and half the fault 
hers. No wonder her fine color, shining in the right parts 
of an admirably drawn face, all disappeared instantly. 

But she evidently was not frightened. She halted, kneeled, 
looked curiously at the stranger, and then proceeded, in a 
perfectly cool and self-possessed way, to pick him up. 
9 



130 THEODOKE W^NTHROP. 

A solid fellow, heavy to lift in his present lumpish condi- 
tion of dead-weight ! She had to tug mightily to get him up 
into a sitting position. "When he was raised, all the back- 
bone seemed gone from his spine, and it took the whole force 
of her vigorous arms to sustain him. 

The effort was enough to account for the return of her 
color. It came rushing back splendidly. Cheeks, forehead, 
everything but nose, blushed. The hard work of lifting so 
much avoirdupois, and possibly, also, the novelty of support- 
ing so much handsome fellow, intensified all her hues. Hei 
eyes — blue, or that shade even more faithful than blue — 
deepened ; and her pale golden hair grew several carats — 
not carrots — brighter. 

She was repaid for her active sympathy at once by discov- 
ering that this big, awkward thing was not a dead, but only 
a stunned body. It had an ugly bump and a bleeding cut 
on its manly skull, but otherwise was quite an agreeable 
object to contemplate, and plainly on its " unembarrassed 
brow Nature had written ' Gentleman.' " 

As this young lady had never had a fair, steady stare at a 
stunned hero before, she seized her advantage. She had 
hitherto been distant with the other sex. She had no 
brother. Not one of her male cousins had ever ventured 
near enough to get those cousinly privileges that timid 
cousins sigh for and plucky cousins take, if they are worth 
taking. 

Wade's impressive face, though for the moment blind as a 
statue's, also seized its advantage and stared at her in- 
tently, with a pained and pleading look, new to those reso- 
lute features. 

Wade was entirely unconscious of the great hit he had 
m^ade by his tumble : plump into the arms of this heroine ! 
There were fellows extant who would have suffered any 
imaginable amputation, any conceivable mauling, any fling 
from the apex of anything into the lowest deeps of any- 
where, for the honor he was now enjoying. 



LOVE AND SKATES. 131 

But all he knew was that his skull was a beehive in an 
uproar, and that one lobe of his brain was struggling to 
swarm oflf. His legs and arms felt as if they belonged to 
another man, and a very limp one at that. A ton of cast-iron 
seemed to be pressing his eyehds down, and a trickle of red- 
hot metal flowed from his cut forehead. 

" I shall have to scream," thought the lady, after an instant 
of anxious waiting, " if he does not revive. I cannot leave 
liim to go for help." 

Not a prude, you see. A prude would have had cheap 
scruples about compromismg herself by taking a man in 
her arms. Not a vulgar person, who would have required 
the stranger to be properly recommended by somebody who 
came over in the Mayflower, before she helped him. Not a 
feeble-minded damsel,, who, if she had not fainted, would 
have fled away, gasping and in tears. No timidity or 
prudery or underbred doubts about this thorough creature. 
She knew she was in her right womanly place, and she 
meant to stay there. 

But she began to need help, possibly a lancet, possibly a 
pocket-pistol, possibly hot blankets, possibly somebody to 
knead these lifeless lungs and pommel this flaccid body, 
until circulation was restored. 

Just as she was making up her mind to scream, Wade 
stirred. He began to tingle as if a familiar of the Inquisi- 
tion were slapping him all over with fine-toothed currycombs. 
He became half conscious of a woman supporting him. In 
a stammering and intoxicated voice he murmured, — 

" Who ran to catch me when I fell, 
And kissed the place to make it well? 
My — " 

He opened his eyes. It was not his mother ; for she was 
long since deceased. Nor was this non-mother kissing the 
place. 

In fact, abashed at the blind eyes suddenly unclosing so 



132 THEODORE WINTHEOP. 

near her, slie was on the point of letting her burden drop. 
When dead men come to life in such a position, and begin to 
talk about " kissing the place," young ladies, however inde- 
pendent of conventions, may well grow uneasy. 

But the stranger, though alive, was evidently in a mollus- 
cous, invertebrate condition. He could not sustain himself. 
She still held him up, a little more at arm's-length, and all 
at once the reaction from extreme anxiety brought a gush 
of tears to her eyes. 

" Don't cry," says Wade, vaguely, and still only half con- 
scious. " I promise never to do so again." 

At this, said with a childlike earnestness, the lady smiled. 

" Don't scalp me," Wade continued, in the same tone. 
" Squaws never scalp." 

He raised his hand to his bleeding forehead. 

She laughed outright at his queer plaintive tone and the 
new class he had placed her in. 

Her laugh and his own movement brought Wade fully to 
himself. She perceived that his look was transferring her 
from the order of scalping squaws to her proper place as a 
beautiful young woman of the highest civiHzation, not smeared 
with vermilion, but blushing celestial rosy. 

" Thank you," said Wade. " I can sit up now without 
assistance." And he regretted profoundly that good breed- 
ing obliged him to say so. 

She withdrew her arms. He rested on the ice, — posture 
of the Dying Gladiator. She made an effort to be cool and 
distant as usual ; but it would not do. This weak mighty 
man still interested her. It was still her business to be 
strength to him. 

He made a feeble attempt to wipe away the drops of 
blood from his forehead with his handkerchief. 

" Let me be your surgeon ! " said she. 

She produced her own folded handkerchief, — M. D. were 
the initials in the corner, — and neatly and tenderly tur- 
baned him. 



LOVE AND SKATES. 133 

"Wade submitted with delight to this treatment. A tum- 
ble with such trimmings was luxury indeed. 

" Who would not break his head," he thought, " to have 
these delicate fingers plying about him, and this pure, noble 
face so close to his ? What a queenly indifferent manner 
she has ! What a calm brow ! What honest eyes ! What 
a firm nose ! What equable cheeks ! What a grand indig- 
nant mouth ! Not a bit afraid of me ! She feels that I am 
a gentleman and will not presume." 

" There ! " said she, drawing back. " Is that comforta- 
ble ? " 

" Luxury ! " he ejaculated with fervor. 

" I am afraid I am to blame for your terrible fall." 

" No, — my own clumsiness and that oar-blade are in 
fault." 

" If you feel well enough to be left alone, I will skate off 
and call my friends." 

" Please do not leave me quite yet ! " says Wade, entirely 
satisfied with the tete-a-tete. 

" Ah ! here comes Mr. Skerrett round the Point ! " she 
said, — and sprang up, looking a little guilty. 



CHAPTER IX. 

LOVE IN THE FIRST DEGREE. 

Peter Skerrett came sailing round the purple rocks 
of his Point, skating like a man who has been in the South 
of Europe for two winters. 

He was decidedly Anglicized in his whiskers, coat, and 
shoes. Otherwise iie in all respects repeated his well-known 
ancestor, Skerrett of the Revolution ; whose two portraits — 
1. A ruddy hero in regimentals, in Gilbert Stuart's early 
brandy-and-water manner ; 2. A rosy sage in senatorials, in 
Stuart's later claret-and-water manner — hang in his de- 
scendant's dining-room. 



134 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

Peter's first look was a provokingly significant one at the 
confused and bluslaing young lady. Secondly, lie inspected 
the Dying Gladiator on the ice. 

" Have you been tilting at this gentleman, Mary ? " he 
asked, in the voice of a cheerful, friendly fellow. " Why ! 
Hullo. Hooray ! It 's Wade, Richard Wade, Dick Wade ! 
Don't look. Miss Mary, while I give him the grips of all the 
secret societies we belonged to in college." 

Mary, however, did look on, pleased and amused, while 
Peter plumped down on the ice, shook his friend's hand, 
and examined him as if he were fine crockery, spilt and 
perhaps shattered. 

" It 's not a case of trepanning, Dick, my boy ? " said he. ■ 

" No," said the other. " I tumbled in trying to dodge 
this lady. The ice thought my face ought to be scratched, 
because I had been scratching its face without mercy. My 
wits were knocked out of me ; but they are tired of secession, 
and pleading to be let in again." 

" Keep some of them out for our sake ! We must have 
you at our commonplace level. Well, Miss Mary, I suppose 
this is the first time you have had the sensation of breaking 
a man's head. You generally hit lower." Peter tapped 
his heart. 

" I 'm all right now, thanks to my surgeon," says Wade. 
" Give me a lift, Peter." He pulled up and clung to his 
friend. 

" You 're the vine and I 'm the lamp-post," Skerrett said. 
" Mary, do you know what a pocket-pistol is ? " 

" I have seen such weapons concealed about the persons 
of modern warriors." 

" There 's one in my overcoat-pocket, with a cup at the 
but and a cork at the muzzle. Skate off", now, like an angel, 
and get it. Bring Fanny, too. She is restorative." 

" Are you alive enough to admire that, Dick ? " he con- 
tinued, as she skimmed away. 



LOVE AND SKATES. 135 

" It would put a soul under the ribs of Death." 

" I venerate that young woman," says Peter. " You see 
what a beauty she is, and just as unspoiled as this ice. Un- 
spoiled beauties are rarer than rocs' eggs." 

" She has a singularly true face," Wade replied, " and that 
is the main thing, — the most excellent thing in man or 
woman." 

" Yes, truth makes that nuisance, beauty, tolerable." 

" You did not do me the honor to present me." 

" I saw you had gone a great way beyond that, my boy. 
Have you not her initials in cambric on your brow ? Not 
M. T., which would n't apply ; but M. D." 

"Mary — ?" 

"Damer." 

" I like the name," says Wade, repeating it. " It sounds 
simple and thorough-bred." 

" Just what she is. One of the nine simple-hearted and 
thorough-bred girls on this continent." 

" Nine ? " 

" Is that too many ? Three, then. That 's one in ten 
millions. The exact proportion of Poets, Painters, Orators, 
Statesmen, and all other Great Artists. Well, — three or 
nine, — Mary Damer is one of them. She never saw fear 
or jealousy, or knowingly allowed an ignoble thought or an 
ungentle word or an ungraceful act in herself. Her atmos- 
phere does not tolerate flirtation. You must find out for 
yourself how much genius she has and has not. But I will 
say this, — that I think of puns two a minute faster when 
I 'm with her. Therefore she must be magnetic, and that 
is the first charm in a woman." 

Wade laughed. " You have not lost your powers of 
analysis, Peter. But talking of this heroine, you have not 
told me anything about yourself, except apropos of pun- 
ning." 

" Come up and dine, and we '11 fire away personal liis- 



136 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

tories, broadside for broadside ! I 've been looking in vain 
for a worthy hero to set vis-a-vis to my fair kinswoman. 
But stop ! perhaps you have a Christmas turkey at home, 
with a wife opposite, and a brace of boys waiting for drum- 
sticks." 

" No, — my boys, like cherubs, await their own drum- 
sticks. They 're not born, and I 'm not married." 

" I thought you looked incomplete and abnormal. Well, 
I will show you a model wife, — and here she comes ! " 

Here they came, the two ladies, gliding round the Point, 
with draperies floating as artlessly artful as the robes of 
Raphael's Hours, or a Pompeian Bacchante. For want of 
classic vase or patera, Miss Damer brandished Peter Sker- 
rett's pocket-pistol. 

Fanny Skerrett gav^e her hand cordially to Wade, and 
looked a little anxiously at his pale face. 

" Now, M. D." says Peter, " you have been surgeon, you 
shall be doctor and dose our patient. Now, then, — 

* Hebe, pour free ! 
Quicken his eyes with mountain-dew, 
That Styx, the detested, 
No more he may view.' " 
" Thanks, Hebe ! " . 

Wade said, continuing the quotation, — 

"I quaff it! 
lo Paean, I cry ! 
The whiskey of the Immortals 
Forbids me to die." 

"We effeminate women of the nineteenth century are 
afraid of broken heads," said Fanny. " But Mary Damer 
seems quite to enjoy your accident, ]Mr. Wade, as an adven^ 
ture." 

Miss Damer certainly did seem gay and exhilarated. 

" I enjoy it," said Wade. " I perceive that I fell on my 
feet, when I fell on my crown. I tumbled among old friends, 
and I hope among new ones." 



LOVE AND SKATES. 137 

" I have been waiting to claim my place among your old 
friends," Mrs. Skerrett said, " ever since Peter told me you 
were one of his models." 

She delivered this little speech with a caressing manner 
which totally fascinated "Wade. 

Nothing was ever so absolutely pretty as IVIrs. Peter 
Skerrett. Her complete prettiness left nothing to be de- 
sired. 

" Never," thought Wade, " did I see such a compact little 
casket of perfections. Every feature is thoroughly well 
done and none intrusively superior. Her little nose is a 
combination of all the amiabilities. Her black eyes sparkle 
with fun and mischief and wit, all playing over deep ten- 
derness below. Her hair ripples itself full of gleams and 
shadows. The same coquetry of Nature that rippled her 
hair has dinted her cheeks with shifting dimples. Every 
time she smiles — and she smiles as if sixty an hour were 
not half-allowance — a dimple slides into view and vanishes 
like a dot in a flow of sunny water. And, O Peter Skerrett ! 
if you were not the best fellow in the world, I should envy 
you that latent kiss of a mouth." 

" You need not say it. Wade, — your broken head ex- 
empts you from the business of compliments," said Peter ; 
" but I see you think my wife perfection. You '11 think so 
the more, the more you know her." 

"Stop, Peter," said she, " or I shall have to hide behind - 
the superior charms of Mary Damer." 

Miss Damer certainly was a woman of a grander order. 
You might pull at the bells or knock at the knockers and be 
introduced into the boudoirs of all the houses, villas, seats, 
chateaus, and palaces in Christendom without seeing such 
another. She belonged distinctly to the Northern races, — 
the "brave and true and tender" women. There was, 
indeed, a trace of hauteur and imperiousness in her look 
and manner; but it did not ill become her distino-uished 



138 THEODOKE WINTHROP. 

figure and face. Wade, however, remembered her sweet 
earnestness when she was playing leech to his wound, and 
chose to take that mood as her dominant one. 

" She must have been desperately annoyed with bores 
and boobies," he thought. " I do not wonder she protects 
herself by distance. I am afraid I shall never get within 
her lines again, — not even if I should try slow and regular 
approaches, and bombard her with bouquets for a twelve- 
month." 

" But, Wade," says Peter, " all this time you have not 
told us what good luck sends you here to be wrecked on the 
hospitable shores of my Point." 

" I live here. I am chief cook and confectioner where 
you see the smoking top of that tall cliimney up-stream." 

" Why, of course ! What a dolt I was, not to think of 
you, when Churm told us an Athlete, a Brave, a Sage, and 
a Gentleman was the Superintendent of Dunderbunk ; but 
said we must find his name out for ourselves. You remem- 
ber, Mary. Miss Damer is Mr. Churm's ward." 

She acknowledged with a cool bow that she did remem- 
ber her guardian's character of Wade. 

" You do not say, Peter," says Mrs. Skerrett, with a 
bright little look at the other lady, " why Mr. Churm was 
so mysterious about Mr. Wade." 

" Miss Damer shall tell us," Peter rejoined, repeating his 
wife's look of merry significance. 

She looked somewhat teased. Wade could divine easily 
the meaning of this little mischievous talk. His friend 
Churm had no doubt puffed him furiously. 

" All this time," said Miss Damer, evading a reply, " we 
are neglecting our skating privileges." 

" Peter and I have a few grains of humanity in our 
souls," Fanny said. " We should blush to sail away from 
Mr. Wade, while he carries the quarantine flag at his pale 
cheeks." 



LOVE AND SKATES. 139 

" I am almost ruddy again," says Wade. " Your potion, 
Miss Damer, has completed the work of your surgery. I 
can afford to dismiss my lamp-post." 

" Whereupon the post changes to a teetotum," Peter said, 
and spun off in an eccentric, ending in a tumble. 

" I must have a share in your restoration, Mr. Wade," 
Fanny claimed. " I see you need a second dose of medi- 
cine. Hand me the flask, Mary. What shall I pour from 
this magic bottle ? juice of Rhine, blood of Burgundy, fire 
of Spain, bubble of Rheims, beeswing of Oporto, honey of 
Cyprus, nectar, or Whiskey ? Whiskey is vulgar, but the 
proper thing, on the whole, for these occasions. I prescribe 
it." And she gave him another little draught to imbibe. 

He took it kindly, for her sake, — and not alone for that, 
but for its own respectable sake. His recovery was com- 
plete. His head, to be sure, sang a little still, and ached 
not a little. Some fellows would have gone on the sick 
list with such a wound. Perhaps he would, if he had had 
a trouble to dodge. But here instead was a pleasure to 
follow. So he began to move about slowly, watching the 
ladies. 

Fanny was a novice in the Art, and this was her first 
day this winter. She skated timidly, holding Peter very 
tightly. She went into the dearest little panics for fear of 
tumbles, and uttered the most musical screams and laughs. 
And if she succeeded in taking a few brave strokes and 
finished with a neat slide, she pleaded for a verdict of 
" Well done ! " with such an appealing smile and such a fine 
show of dimples that every one was fascinated and applauded 
heartily. 

Miss Damer skated as became her free and vioorous 
character. She had passed her Little Go as a scholar, 
and was now steadily winning her way through the list of 
achievements, before given, toward the Great Go. To-day 
she was at work at small circles backward. Presently she 



140 THEODORE WINTHEOP. 

wound off a series of perfectly neat ones, and, looking up, 
pleased with her prowess, caught "Wade's admiring eye. At 
this she smiled and gave an arch little womanly nod of self- 
approval, which also demanded masculine sympathy before 
it was quite a perfect emotion. 

With this charming gesture, the alert feather in her 
Amazonian hat nodded, too, as if it admired its lovely 
mistress. 

Wade was thrilled. " Brava ! " he cried, in answer to 
the part of her look which asked sympathy , and then, in 
reply to the implied challenge, he forgot his hurt and his 
shock, and struck into the same figure. 

He tried not fo surpass his fair exemplar too cruelly. 
But he did his peripheries well enough to get a repetition 
of the captivating nod and a Bravo ! from the lady. 

" Bravo ! " said she. " But do not tax your strength too 
soon." 

She began to feel that she was expressing too much 
interest in the stranger. It was a new sensation for her to 
care whether men fell or got up. A new sensation. She 
rather liked it. She was a trifle ashamed of it. In 
either case, she did not wish to show that it was in her 
heart. The consciousness of concealment flushed her 
damask cheek. 

It was a damask cheek. All her hues were cool and 
pearly ; while Wade, Saxon too, had hot golden tints in his 
hair and moustache, and his color, now returning, was good 
strong red with plenty of bronze in it. 

" Thank you," he replied. " My force has all come back. 
You have electrified me." 

A civil nothing; but meaning managed to get into his 
tone and look, whether he would or not. 

Which he perceiving, on his part began to feel guilty. 

Of what crime ? 

Of the very same crime as hers, — the most ancient and 



LOVE AND SKATES. 141 

most pardonable crime of youth and maiden, — that sweet 
and guiltless crime of love in the first degree. 

So, without troubling themselves to analyze their feelings, 
they found a piquant pleasure in skating together, — she in 
admiring his tours de force, and he instructing her. 

" Look, Peter ! " said Mrs. Skerrett, pointing to the other 
pair skating, he on the backward roll, she on the forward, 
with hands crossed and locked; — such contacts are per- 
mitted in skating, as in dancing. " Your hero and my 
heroine have dropped into an intimacy." 

" None but the Plucky deserve the Pretty," says Peter. 

" But he seems to be such a fine fellow, — suppose she 
should n't — " 

The pretty face looked anxious. 

" Suppose he should n't," Peter on the masculine behalf 
returned. 

" He cannot help it : Mary is so noble, — and so charm- 
ing, when she does not disdain to be." 

" I do not believe she can help it. She cannot disdain 
Wade. He carries too many guns for that. He is just as 
fine as she is. He was a hero when I first knew him. His 
face does not show an atom of change ; and you know what 
Mr. Churm told us of his chivalric deeds elsewhere, and 
how he tamed and reformed Dunderbunk. He is crystal 
grit, as crystalline and gritty as he can be." 

" Grit seems to be your symbol of the liighest qualities. 
It certainly is a better thing in man than in ice-cream. 
But, Peter, suppose this should be a true love and should 
not run smooth ? "- 

" What consequence is the smooth running, so long as 
there is strong running and a final getting in neck and neck 
at the winning-post ? " 

"But," still pleaded the anxious soul, — having no anxie- 
ties of her own, she was always suffering for others, — " he 
seems to be such a fine fellow ! and she is so hard to win ! " 



142 THEODORE WINTHEOP. 

"Am I a fine fellow?" 

" No, — horrid ! " 

" The truth, — or I let you tumble." 

" Well, upon compulsion, I admit that you are." 

" Then being a fine fellow does not diminish the said fel- 
low's chances of being blessed with a wife quite superfine." 

" If I thought you were personal, Peter, I should object 
to the mercantile adjective. ' Superfine,' indeed ! " 

" I am personal. I withdraw the obnoxious phrase, and 
substitute transcendent. No, Fanny dear, I read "Wade's 
experience in my own. I do not feel very much concerned 
about him. He is big enough to take care of himself. A 
man who is sincere, self-possessed, and steady, does not get 
into miseries with beautiful Amazons like our friend. He 
knows too much to try to make his love run up hill ; but let 
it once get started, rough running gives it vim. Wade will 
love like a deluge, when he sees that he may, and I 'd 
advise obstacles to stand off"." 

" It was pretty, Peter, to see cold Mary Damer so gentle 
and almost tender." 

" I always have loved to see the first beginnings of what 
looks like love, since I saw ours." 

" Ours," she said, — " it seems like yesterday." 

And then together they recalled that fair picture against 
its dark ground of sorrow, and so went on refreshing the 
emotions of that time, until Fanny smiling said, — 

" There must be something magical in skates, for here we 
are talking sentimentally like a pair of young lovers." 

" Health and love are cause and effect," says Peter, sen- 
tentiously. 

Meanwhile Wade had been fast skating into the good 
graces of his companion. Perhaps the rap on his head had 
deranged him. He certainly tossed himself about in a 
reckless and insane way. Still, he justified his conduct by 
never tumbling again, and by inventing new devices with 
bewildering rapidity. 



LOVE AND SKATES. 143 

This pair were not at all sentimental. Indeed, their talk 
was quite technical : all about rings and edges, and heel and 
toe, — what skates are best, and who best use them. There 
is an immense amount of sympathy to be exchanged on such 
topics, and it was somewhat significant that they avoided 
other themes where they might not sympathize so thor- 
oughly. The negative part of a conversation is often as 
important as its positive. 

So the four entertained themselves finely, sometimes as a 
quartette, sometimes as two duos with proper changes of 
partners, until the clear west began to grow golden and the 
clear east pink with sunset. 

" It is a pity to go," said Peter Skerrett. " Everything 
here is perfection and Fine Art ; but we must not be 
unfaithful to dinner. Dinner would have a right to pun- 
ish us, if we did not encourage its efforts to be Fine Art 
also." 

" Now, Mr. "Wade," Fanny commanded, " your most 
heroic series of exploits, to close this heroic day." 

He nimbly dashed through his list. The ice was traced 
with a labyrinth of involuted convolutions. 

Wade's last turn brought him to the very spot of his 
tumble. 

" Ah ! " said he. " Here is the oar that tripped me, with 
' Wade, his mark,' gashed into it. If I had not tliis," — he 
touched Miss Damer's handkerchief, — "for a souvenir, I 
think I would dig uj) the oar and cany it home." 

" Let it melt out and float away in the spring," Mary 
said. "It may be a perch for a sea-gull or a buoy for a 
drowning man." 

Here, if this were a long story instead of a short one, 
might be given a description of Peter Skerrett's house and 
the menu of Mrs. Skerrett's dinner. Peter and his wife 
had both been to great pillory dinners, ad nauseam^ and 
learnt what to avoid. How not to be bored is the object 



144 ' THEODORE WINTHEOP. 

of 'all civilization, and the Skerretts had discovered the 
methods. 

I must dismiss the dinner and the evening, stamped with 
the general epithet, Perfection. 

" You wUl join us again to-morrow on the river," said 
Mrs. Skerrett, as Wade rose to go. 

" To-morrow I go to town to report to my Directors." 

"Then next day." 

"Next day, with pleasure." 

Wade departed and marked this halcyon day with white 
chalk, as the whitest, brightest, sweetest of his life. 



CHAPTER X. 

FOREBODINGS. 

Jubilation! Jubilation now, instead of Consternation, 
in the office of Mr. Benjamin Brummage in Wall Street. 

President Brummage had convoked his Directors to hear 
the First Semi- Annual Report of the new Supeidntendent 
and Dictator of Dunderbunk. 

And there they sat around the green table, no longer 
forlorn and dreading a failure, but all chuckling with satis- 
faction over their prosperity. 

They were a happy and hilarious family now, — so 
hilarious that the President was obliged to be always rap- 
ping to Orderr with his paper-knife. 

Every one of these gentlemen was proud of himself as a 
Director of so successful a Company. The Dunderbunk 
advertisement might now consider itself as permanent in 
the newspapers, and the Treasurer had very unnecessarily 
inserted the notice of a dividend, which everybody knew of 
already. 

When Mr. Churm was not by, they all claimed the honor 
of having discovered Wade, or at least of having been the 
first to appreciate him. 



LOVE AND SKATES. 145 

They all invited him to dinner,- — the others at their 
honses, Sam Gwelp at his club. 

They had not yet begun to wax fat and kick. They still 
remembered the panic of last summer. They passed a 
unanimous vote of the most complimentary confidence in 
Wade, approved of his system, forced upon him an increase 
of salary, and began to talk of " launching out " and doub- 
ling their capital. In short, they behaved as Directors do 
when all is serene. 

Churm and Wade had a hearty laugh over the ab- 
surdities of the Board and all their vague propositions. 

" Dunderbunk," said Churm, " was a company started on 
a sentimental basis, as many others are." 

" Mr. Brummage fell in love with pig-iron ? " 

" Precisely. He had been a dry-goods jobber, risen from 
a retailer somewhere in the country. He felt a certain lack 
of dignity in his work. He wanted to deal in something 
more masculine than lace and ribbons. He read a sen- 
timental article on Iron in the ' Journal of Commerce ' : how 
Iron held the world together ; how it was nerve and sinew ; 
how it was ductile and malleable and other things that 
sounded big ; how without Iron civilization would stop, and 
New-Zealanders hunt rats among the ruins of London ; 
how anybody who would make two tons of Iron grow where 
one grew before was a benefactor to the human race greater 
than Alexander, Caesar, or Napoleon ; and so on, — you 
know the eloquent style. Brummage's soul was fired. He 
determined to be greater than the thi'ee heroes named. He 
was oozing with unoccupied capital. He went about among 
the other rich jobbers, with the newspaper article in his 
hand, and fired their souls. They determined to be great 
Iron-Kings, — magnificent thought ! They wanted to read 
in the newspapers, ' If all the iron rails made at the Dun- 
derbunk Works in the last six months were put together in 
a straight line, they would reach twice round our terraque- 

10 



146 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

ous globe and seventy-tliree miles two rails over.' So on 
that poetic foundation they started the concern." 

Wade laughed. " But how did you happen to be with 
them ? " 

" Oh ! my friend Damer sold them the land for the shop 
and took stock in payment. I came into the Board as his 
executor. Did I never tell you so before ? " 

" No." 

" Well, then, be informed that it was in Miss Damer's 
behalf that you knocked down Friend Tarbox, and so got 
your skates for saving her property. It 's quite a romance 
already, Richard, my boy ! and I suppose you feel im- 
mensely bored that you had to come down and meet us old 
chaps, instead of tumbhng at her feet on the ice again to- 
day." 

"A tumble in this wet day would be a cold bath to 
romance." 

The Gulf Stream had sent up a warm spoil-sport rain 
that morning. It did not stop, but poured furiously the 
whole day. 

From Cohoes to Spuyten Duyvil, on both sides of the 
river, all the skaters swore at the weather, as profane per- 
sons no doubt did when the windows of heaven were opened 
in Noah's time. The skateresses did not swear, but sav- 
agely said, " It is too bad," — and so it was. 

Wade, loaded with the blessings of his Directors, took the 
train next morning for Dunderbunk. 

The weather was still mild and drizzly, but promised to 
clear. As the train rattled along by the river. Wade could 
see that the thin ice was breaking up everywhere. In mid- 
stream a procession of blocks was steadily drifting along. 
Unless Zero came sliding down again pretty soon from 
Boreal regions, the sheets that filled the coves and clung 
to the shores would also sail away southward, and the whole 
Hudson he left clear as in midsummer. 



/ 
LOVE AND SKATES. 147 

At Yonkers a down train ranged by the side of Wade's 
train, and, looking out he saw Mr. and Mrs. Skerrett 
alighting. 

He jumped down, rather surprised, to speak to them. 

" We have just been telegraphed here," said Peter, grave- 
ly. " The son of a widow, a friend of ours, was drowned 
this morning in the soft ice of the river. He was a pet of 
mine, poor fellow ! and the mother depends upon me for 
advice. We have come down to say a kind word. Why 
won't you report us to the ladies at my house, and say 
we shall not be at home until the evening train ? They 
do not know the cause of our journey except that it is 
a sad one." 

" Perhaps Mr. Wade will carve their turkey for them at 
dinner, Peter," Fanny suggested. 

" Do, Wade ! and keep their spirits up. Dinner 's at 
six." 

Here the engine whistled. Wade promised to " shine 
substitute " at his friend's board, and took his place again. 
The train galloped away. 

Peter and his wife exchanged a bright look over the 
fortunate incident of this meeting, and went on their kind 
way to carry sympathy and such consolation as might be 
to the widow. 

The train galloped northward. Until now, the beat of 
its wheels, like the click of an enormous metronome, had 
kept time to jubilant measures singing in Wade's brain. 
He was hurrying back, exhilarated with success, to the 
presence of a woman whose smile was finer exhilaration 
than any number of votes of confidence, passed unanimously 
by any number of conclaves of overjoyed Directors, and 
signed by Brummage after Brummage, with the signature 
of a capitalist in a flurry of delight at a ten per cent divi- 
dend. 

But into this joyous mood of Wade's the thought of death 



148 THEODOKE WINTHROP. 

suddenly intruded. He could not keep a picture of death 
and drowning out of his mind. As the train sprang along 
and opened gloomy breadth after breadth of the leaden 
river, clogged with slow-drifting files of ice-blocks, he found 
himself staring across the dreary waste and forever fancy- 
ing some one sinking there, helpless and alone. 

He seemed to see a brave, bright-eyed, ruddy boy ven- 
turing out carelessly along the edges of the weakened ice. 
Suddenly the ice gives way, the little figure sinks, rises, 
clutches deperately at a fragment, struggles a moment, is 
borne along in the relentless flow of the chilly water, stares 
in vain shoreward, and so sinks again with a look of agony, 
and is gone. 

But whenever this inevitable picture grew before Wade's 
eyes, as the drowning figure of his fancy vanished, it sud- 
denly changed features, and presented the face of Mary 
Darner, perishing beyond succor. 

Of course he knew that this was but a morbid vision. 
Yet that it came at all, and that it so agonized him, 
proved the force of his new feeling. 

He had not analyzed it before. This thought of death 
became its touchstone. 

Men like Wade, strong, healthy, earnest, concentrated, 
straightforward, isolated, judge men and women as friends or 
foes at once and once for all. He had recognized in Mary 
Damer from the first a heart as true, whole, noble, and 
healthy as his own. A fine instinct had told him that she 
was waiting for her hero, as he was for his heroine. 

So he suddenly loved her. And yet not suddenly ; for 
all his life, and all his lesser forgotten or discarded passions, 
had been training him for this master one. 

He suddenly and strongly loved her ; and yet it had only 
been a beautiful bewilderment of uncomprehended delight, 
until this haunting vision of her fair face sinking amid the 
hungry ice beset him. Then he perceived Avhat would be 
lost to him, if she were lost. 



LOVE AND SKATES. 149 

The thought of Death placed itself between him and 
Love. If the love had been merely a pretty remembrance 
of a charming woman, he might have dismissed his fancied 
drowning scene with a little emotion of regret. Now, the 
fancy was an agony. 

He had too much power over himself to entertain it long. 
But the grisly thought came uninvited, returned undesired, 
and no resolute Avaunt, even backed by that magic wand, a 
cigar, availed to banish it wholly. 

The sky cleared cold at eleven o'clock. A sharp wind 
drew through the Highlands. As the train rattled round 
the curve below the tunnel through Skerrett's Pomt, Wade 
could see his skating course of Christmas day with the 
ladies. Firm ice, glazed smooth by the sudden chill after 
the rain, filled the Cove and stretched beyond the Point 
into the river. 

It was treacherous stuff, beautiful to the eyes of a skater, 
but sure to be weak, and likely to break up any moment 
and join the deliberate headlong di-ift of the masses in mid- 
current. 

Wade almost dreaded lest bis vision should suddenly 
realize itself, and he should see his enthusiastic companion 
of the other day sailing gracefully along to certain death. 

Notliing living, however, was in sight, except here and 
there a crow, skipping about in the floating ice. 

The lover was greatly relieved. He could now forewarn 
the lady against the peril he had imagined. The train in a 
moment dropped him at Dunderbunk. He hurried to the 
Foundry and wrote a note to Mrs. Damer. 

" ]Mr. Wade presents his compliments to "Mrs. Damer, and 
has the honor to inform her that IVIr. Skerrett has nomi- 
nated him carver to the ladies to-day in their host's place. 

" ]Mr. Wade hopes that IVIiss Damer will excuse him from 
his engac'ement to skate with her this afternoon. The ice is 
dangerous, and Miss Damer should on no account venture 
upon it." 



150 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

Perry Purtett was tlie bearer of this billet. He swag- 
gered into Peter Skerrett's hall, and dreadfully alarmed the 
fresh-imported Englishman who answered the bell, by order- 
ing him in a severe tone, — 

" Hurry up, now, White Cravat, with that answer ! I 'm 
wanted down at the Works. Steam don't bile when I'm 
off; and the fly-wheel will never buzz another turn, unless 
I 'm there to motion it to move on." 

Mrs. Damer's gracious reply informed Wade "that she 
should be charmed to see him at dinner, etc., and would not 
fail to transmit his kind warning to Miss Damer, when she 
returned from her drive to make calls." 

But when Miss Damer returned in the afternoon, her 
mother was taking a gentle nap over the violet, indigo, blue, 
green, yellow, orange, red stripes of a gorgeous Afghan she 
was knitting. The daughter heard nothing of the billet. 
The house was lonely without Fanny Skerrett. Mr. Wade 
did not come at the appointed hour. Mary was not willing 
to say to herself how much she regretted his absence. 

Had he forgotten the appointment ? 

No, — that was a thought not to be tolerated. 

" A gentleman does not forget," she thought, and she had 
a thorough confidence, besides, that this gentleman was very 
willing to remember. 

She read a little, fitfully, sang fitfully, moved about the 
house uneasily ; and at last, when it grew late, and she was 
bored and Wade did not arrive, she pronomiced to herself 
that he had been detained in town. 

This point settled, she took her skates, put on her pretty 
Amazonian hat with its alert feather, and went down to 
waste her beauty and grace on the ice, unattended and 
alone. 



LOVE AND SKATES. 151 



CHAPTER XI. 

cap'n ambuster's skiff. 

It was a busy afternoon at the Dunderbunk Foundry. 

The Superintendent had come back with his pocket full 
of orders. Everybody, from the Czar of Russia to the 
President of the Guano Republic, was in the market for 
machinery. Crisis was gone by. Prosperity was come. 
The world was all ready to move, and only waited for a 
fresh supply of wheels, cranks, side-levers, walking-beams, 
and other such muscular creatures of iron, to push and tug 
and swing and revolve and set Progress a-going. 

Dunderbunk was to have its full share in supplying the 
demand. It was well understood by this time that the iron 
Wade made was as stanch as the man who made it. Dun- 
derbunk, therefore. Head and Hands, must despatch. 

So it was a busy afternoon at the industrious Foundry. 
The men bestirred themselves. The furnaces rumbled. 
The engine thumped. The drums in the finishing-shop 
hummed merrily their lively song of labor. The four trip- 
hammers — two bull-headed, two calf-headed - — champed, 
like carnivorous maws, upon red bars of iron, and over 
their banquet they roared the big-toned music of the trip- 
hammer chorus. 

*' Now then ! hit hard ! 
Strike while Iron 's hot. Life 's short. Art 's long." 

By this massive refrain, ringing in at intervals above the 
ceaseless buzz, murmur, and clang throughout the buildings, 
every man's work was mightily nerved and inspired. Every- 
body liked to hear the sturdy song of these grim vocalists ; 
and whenever they struck in, each solo or duo or quatuor 
of men, playing Anvil Chorus, quickened time, and all the 
action and rumor of the busy opera went on more cheerily 
and lustily. So work kept astir like play. 



152 THEODORE WmiHROP. 

An hour before sunset, Bill Tarbox stepped into Wade's 
office. Even oily and begrimed, Bill could be recognized as 
a favored lover. He looked more a man than ever before. 

" I forgot to mention," says the foreman, " that Cap'n 
Ambuster was in, this morning, to see you. He says, that, 
if 'the river 's clear enough for him to get away from our 
dock, he '11 go down to the City to-morrow, and offers to 
take freight cheap. We might put that new walking-beam, 
we 've just rough-finished for the ' Union,' aboard of him." 

" Yes, — if he is sure to go to-morrow. It will not do to 
delay. The owners complained to me yesterday that the 
' Union ' was in a bad way for want of its new machinery. 
Tell your brother-in-law to come here, Bill." 

Tarbox looked sheepishly pleased, and summoned Perry 
Purtett. 

" Run down. Perry," said Wade, " to the ^ Ambuster,' and 
ask Captain Isaac to step up here a moment. Tell him I 
have some freight to send by him." 

Perry moved through the Foundry with his usual jaunty 
step, left his dignity at the door, and ran off to the dock. 

The weather had grown fitful. Heavy clouds whirled 
over, trailing snow-flurries. Rarely the sun found a cleft in 
the black canopy to shoot a ray through and remind the 
world that he was still in his place and ready to shine when 
he was wanted. 

Master Perry had a furlong to go before he reached the 
dock. He crossed the stream, kept unfrozen by the warm 
influences of the Foundry. He ran through a little dell 
hedged on each side by dull green cedars. It was severely 
cold now, and our young friend condescended to prance and 
jump over the ice-skimmed puddles to keep his blood in 
motion. 

The little rusty, pudgy steamboat lay at the down-stream 
side of the Foundry Wharf. Her name was so long and 
her paddle-box so short, that the painter, beginning with 



LOVE AND SKATES. 153 

ambitious large letters, had been compelled to- abbre\aate 
tbe last syllable. Her title read thus : — 

I. AMBUSTer. 

Certainly a formidable inscription for a steamboat ! 

When she hove in sight, Perry halted, resumed his 
stately demeanor, and embarked as if he were a Doge 
entering a Bucentaur to wed a Sea. 

There was nobody on deck to witness the arrival and 
salute the magnijico. 

Perry looked in at the Cap'n's office. He beheld a three- 
legged stool, a hacked desk, an inky steel-pen, an inkless 
inkstand ; but no Cap'n Ambuster. > 

Perry inspected the Cap'n's state-room. There was a 
cracked looking-glass, into which he looked ; a hair-brush 
suspended by the glass, which he used ; a lair of blankets in 
a berth, which he had no present use for ; and a smell of 
musty boots, which nobody with a nose could help smelling. 
Still no Captain Ambuster, nor any of his crew. 

Search in the unsavory kitchen revealed no cook, coiled 
up in a corner, suffering nightmares for the last greasy 
dinner he had brewed in his frying-pan. There were no 
deck hands bundled into their bunks. Perry rapped on the 
chain-box and inquired if anybody was within, and nobody 
answering, he had to ventriloquize a negative. 

The engine-room, too, was vacant, and quite as unsavory 
as the other dens on board. Perry patronized the engine 
by a pull or two at the valves, and continued his tour of 
inspection. 

The Ambuster's skiff, lying on her forward deck, seemed 
to entertain him vastly. 

" Jolly ! " says Perry. And so it was a jolly boat in the 
literal, not the technical sense. 

" The three wise men of Gotham went to sea in a bowl ; 
and here 's the identical craft," says PeiTy. 



154 ^ THEODOEE WINTHROP. 

He gave the chubby little machine a push with his foot. 
It rolled and wallowed about grotesquely. When it was 
still again, it looked so comic, lying contentedly on its fat 
side like a pudgy baby, that Perry had a roar of laughter, 
which, like other laughter to one's self, did not sound very 
merry, particularly as the north-wind was howling omi- 
nously, and the broken ice, on its downward way, was 
whispering and moaning and talking on in a most mysteri- 
ous and inarticulate manner. 

" Those sheets of ice would crunch up this skiff, as pigs 
do a punkin," thinks Perry. 

And with this thought in his head he looked out on the 
river, and fancied the foolish little vessel cast loose and 
buffeting helplessly about in the ice. 

He had been so busy until now, in prying about the 
steamboat and making up his mind that Captain and men 
had all gone off for a comfortable supper on shore, that his 
ejes had not wandered toward the stream. 

Now his glance began to follow the course of the icy cur- 
rent. He wondered where all this supply of cakes came 
from, and how many of them would escape the stems of 
ferry-boats below and get safe to sea. 

All at once, as he looked lazily along the lazy files of ice, 
his eyes caught a black object drifting on a fragment in a 
wide way of open water opposite Skerrett's Point, a mile 
distant. 

Perry's heart stopped beating. He uttered a little gasp- 
ing cry. He sprang ashore, not at all like a Doge quitting 
a Bucentaur. He tore back to the Foundry, dashing 
through the puddles, and, never stopping to pick up his cap, 
burst in upon Wade and Bill Tarbox in the office. 

The boy was splashed from head to foot with red mud. 
His light hair, blown wildly about, made his ashy face seem 
paler. He stood panting. 

His dumb terror brought back to Wade's mind all the bad 
omens of the morning. 



LOVE AND SKATES. 155 

" Speak ! " said he, seizing Perry fiercely by the shoulder. 

The uproar of the Works seemed to hush for an instant, 
while the lad stammered faintly, — 

" There 's somebody carried off in the ice by Skerrett's 
Point. It looks like a woman. And there 's nobody to 
help." 



CHAPTER XII. 

IN THE ICE. 

" Help ! help ! " shouted the four trip-hammers, bursting 
in like a magnified echo of the boy's last word. " Help ! 
help ! " all the humming wheels and drums repeated more 
plaintively. 

Wade made for the river. 

This was the moment all his manhood had been training 
and saving for. For this he had kept sound and brave from 
his youth up. 

As he ran, he felt that the only chance of instant help 
was in that queer little bowl-shaped skiff of the " Am- 
buster." 

He had never been conscious that he had observed it ; 
but the image had lain latent in his mind, biding its time. 
It might be ten, twenty precious moments before another 
boat could be found. This one was on the spot to do its 
duty at once. 

" Somebody carried off, — perhaps a woman," Wade 
thought. " Not — No, she would not neglect my warn- 
ing ! Whoever it is, we must save her from this dreadful 
death!" 

He sprang on board the little steamboat. She was sway- 
ing uneasily at her moorings, as the ice crowded along and 
hammered against her stem. Wade stared from her deck 
down the river, mth all his Hfe at his eyes. 



156 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

More than a mile away, below the hemlock-crested point, 
was the dark object Perry had seen, still stirring along the 
edges of the floating ice. A broad avenue of leaden-green 
water wrinkled by the cold wind separated the field where 
this figure was moving from the shore. Dark object and its 
footing of gray ice were drifting deliberately farther and 
fa|:'ther away. 

For one instant Wade thought that the terrible dread in 
his heart would paralyze him. But in that one moment, 
while his blood stopped flowing and his nerves failed, Bill 
Tarbox overtook him and was there by his side. 

" I brought your cap," says Bill, " and our two coats." 

Wade put on his cap mechanically. This little action 
calmed him. 

" Bill," said he, " I 'm afraid it is a woman, — a dear 
friend of mine, — a very dear friend." 

Bill, a lover, understood the tone. 

" We '11 take care of her between us," he said. 

The two turned at once to the little tub of a boat. 

Oars ? Yes, — slung under the thwarts, — a pair of 
short sculls, worn and split, but with work in them still. 
There they hung ready, — and a rusty boat-hook, besides. 

" Find the thole-pins. Bill, while I cut a plug fo^ her bot- 
tom out of this broomstick," Wade said. 

This was done in a moment. Bill threw in the coats. 

" Now, together ! " 

They lifted the skiff to the gangway. Wade jumped 
down on the ice and received her carefully. They ran 
her along, as far as they could go, and launched her in the 
sludge. 

" Take the sculls. Bill. I '11 work the boat-hook in the 
bow." 

Nothing more was said. They thrust out with their crazy 
little craft into the thick of the ice-flood. Bill, amidships, 
dug with his sculls in among the huddled cakes. It was 



LOVE AND SKATES. 157 

clumsy pulling. Now this oar and now that would be 
thrown out. He could never get a full stroke. 

Wade in the bow could do better. He jammed the 
blocks aside with his boat-hook. He dragged the skijQf 
forward. He steered through the little open ways of 
water. 

Sometimes they came to a broad sheet of solid ice. 
Then it was " Out with her, Bill ! " and they were both 
out and sliding their bowl so quick over, that they had^ 
not time to go through the rotten surface. This was 
drowning business ; but neither could be spared to drown 
yet. 

In the leads of clear water, the oarsman got brave pulls, 
and sent the boat on mightily. Then again in the thick 
porridge of brash ice they lost headway, or were baffled and 
stopped among the cakes. Slow work, slow and painful ; 
and for many minutes they seemed to gain nothing upon 
the steady flow of the merciless current. 

A frail craft for such a voyage, this queer little half- 
pumpkin ! A frail and leaky shell. She bent and cracked 
from stem to stern among the nipping masses. Water 
oozed in through her dry seams. Any moment a rougher 
touch or a sharper edge might cut her through. But that 
was a risk they had accepted. They did not take time to 
think of it, nor to listen to the crunching and crackling of 
the hungry ice around. They urged straight on, steadily, 
eagerly, coolly, spending and saving strength. 

Not one moment to lose ! The shattering of broad sheets 
of 'ice around them was a warning of what might happen to 
the frail support of their chase. One thrust of the boat- 
hook sometimes cleft a cake that to the eye seemed stout 
enough to bear a heavier weight than a woman's. 

Not one moment to spare ! The dark figure, now drifted 
far below the hemlocks of the Point, no longer stirred. It 
seemed to have sunk upon the ice and to be resting there 



158 THEODORE WINTHROP. 

weary and helpless, on one side a wide way of lurid water, 
on the other half a mile of moving desolation. 

Far to go, and no time to waste ! 

" Give way, Bill ! Give way ! " 

"Ay, ay!" 

Both spoke in low tones, hardly louder than the whisper 
of the ice around them. 

By this time hundreds from the Foundry and the village 
were swarming upon the wharf and the steamboat. 

" A hundred tar-barrels would n't git up my steam in time 
to do any good," says Cap'n Ambuster. " If them two in 
my skiflf don't overhaul the man, he 's gone." 

" You 're sure it 's a man ? " says Smith Wheelwright. 

" Take a squint through my glass. I 'm dreffuUy afeard 
it 's a gal ; but sutliin' 's got into my eye, so I can't see." 

Suthin' had got into the old fellow's eye, — suthin' saline 
and acrid, — namely, a tear. 

" It 's a woman,"' says Wheelwright, — and suthin' of the 
same kind blinded liim also. 

Almost sunset now. But the air was suddenly filled with 
perplexing snow-dust from a heavy squall. A white cur- 
tain dropped between the anxious watchers on the wharf 
and the boatmen. 

The same white curtain hid the dark floating object from 
its pursuers. There was nothing in sight to steer by now. 

Wade steered by his last glimpse, — by the current, — 
by the rush of the roaring wind, — - by instinct. 

How merciful that in such a moment a man is spared the 
agony of thought ! His agony goes into action, intense as 
life. 

It was bitterly cold. A swash of ice-water filled the 
bottom of the skiff. She was low enough down without 
that. They could not stop to bail, and the miniature ice- 
bergs they passed began to look significantly over the gun- 
wale. Which would come to the point of foundering first, 
the boat or the little floe it aimed for ? 



LOVE AND SKATES. 159 

Bitterly cold! The snow hardly melted upon Tarbox's 
bare hands. His fingers stiffened to the oars ; but there 
was life in them still, and still he did his work, and never 
turned to see how the steersman was doing his. 

A flight of crows came sailing with the snow-squall. 
They alighted all about on the hummocks, and curiously 
watched the two men battling to save life. One black 
impish bird, more malignant or more sympathetic than his 
fellows, ventured to poise on the skifTs stern. 

Bill hissed off his third passenger. The crow rose on its 
toes, let the boat slide away from under him, and followed 
croaking dismal good wishes. 

The last sunbeams were now cutting in everywhere. 
The thick snow-flurry was like a luminous cloud. Sud- 
denly it drew aside. 

The industrious skiff had steered so well and made such 
headway, that there, a hundred yards away, safe still, not 
gone, thank God ! was the woman they sought. 

A dusky mass flung together on a waning rood of ice, — 
Wade could see nothing more. 

Weary or benumbed, or sick with pure forlornness and 
despair, she had drooped down and showed no sign of life. 

The great wind shook the river. Her waning rood of 
ice narrowed, foot by foot, like an unthrifty man's heritage. 
Inch by inch its edges wore away, until the little space that 
half sustained the dark heap was no bigger than a cofUn-lid. 

Help, now ! — now, men, if you are to save ! Thrust, 
Richard Wade, with your boat-hook ! Pull, Bill, till your 
oars snap ! Out with your last frenzies of vigor ! For the 
little raft of ice, even that has crumbled beneath its burden, 
and she sinks, — sinks, with succor close at hand ! 

Sinks ! No, — she rises and floats ao;ain. 

She clasps sometliing that holds ' her head just above 
water. But the unmannerly ice has buffeted her hat off. 
The fragments toss it about, — that pretty Amazonian hat, 



160 THEODOEE WINTHROP. 

with its alert feather, all drooping -and draggled. Her fair 
hair and pure forehead are uncovered for an astonished sun- 
beam to alight upon. 

" It is my love, my life, Bill ! Give way, once more ! " 

" Way enough ! Steady ! Sit where you are, Bill, and 
trim boat, while I lift her out. iTVe cannot risk capsizing." 

He raised her carefully, tenderly, with his strong arms. 

A bit of wood had buoyed her up for that last moment. 
It was a broken oar with a deep fresh gash in it. "Wade 
knew his mark, — the cut of his own skate-iron. This 
busy oar was still resolved to play its part in the drama. 

The round little skiff just bore the third person without 
sinking. 

Wade laid Mary Damer against the thwart. She would 
not let go her buoy. He unclasped her stiffened hands. 
This friendly touch found its way to her heart. She opened 
her eyes and knew him. 

" The ice shall not carry off her hat to frighten some 
mother, down stream," says Bill Tarbox, catcliing it. 

All these proceedings Cap'n Ambuster's spy-glass an 
nounced to Dunderbunk. 

" They 're h'istin' her up. They 've slumped her into the 
skiff. They 're puttin' for shore. Hooray ! " 

Pity a spy-glass cannot shoot cheers a mile and a half ! 

Perry Purtett instantly led a stampede of half Dunder- 
bunk along the railroad-track to learn who it was and all 
about it. 

All about it was that Miss Damer was safe, and not 
dangerously frozen, — and that Wade and Tarbox had 
carried her up the hill to her mother at Peter Skerrett's. 

Missing the heroes in chief, Dunderbunk made a hero of 
Cap'n Ambuster's skiff. It was transported back on the 
shoulders of the crowd in triumphal procession. Perry 
Purtett carried round the hat for a contribution to new 
paint it, new rib it, new gunwale it, give it new sculls and a 



LOVE AXD SKATES. 161 

new boat-hook, — indeed to make a new vessel of the brave 
little bowl. 

" I 'm afeard," says Cap'n Ambuster, " that, when I git a 
harnsome new skiff, I shall want a harnsome new steam- 
boat, and then the boat will go to cruisin' round for a 
harnsome new Cap'n.'! 

And now for the end of this story. 

Healthy love-stories always end in happy marriages. 

So ends this story, begun as to its love portion by the 
little romance of a tumble, and continued by the bigger 
romance of a rescue. 

Of course there were incidents enough to fill a volume, 
obstacles enough to fill a volume, and development of char- 
acter enough to fill a tome thick as " Webster's Unabridged," 
before the happy end of the beginning of the Wade-Damer 
joint liistory. 

But we can safely take for granted that, the lover being 
true and manly, and the lady true and womanly, and both 
possessed of the high moral qualities necessary to artistic 
skating, they will go on understanding each other better, 
until they are as one as two can be. 

Masculme reader, attend to the moral of this tale : — 

Skate well, be a hero, bravely deserve the fair, prove 
your deserts by your deeds, find your " perfect woman nobly 
planned to warm, to comfort, and command," catch her 
when found, and you are Blest. 

Reader of the gentler sex, likewise attend: — 

All the essential blessings of life accompany a true heart 
and a good complexion. Skate vigorously ; then your heart 
will beat true, your cheeks "svill bloom, your appointed lover 
will see your beautiful soul sliming through your beautiful 
face, he will tell you so, and after sufficient circumlocution 
he will Pop, you will accept, and your hves will glide 
sweetly as skating on virgin ice to silver music. 
11 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 

By D. G. EOSSETTI. 

THE blessed Damozel leaned out 
From the gold bar of Heaven ; 
Her eyes knew more of rest and shade 

Than waters stilled at even ; 
She had three lilies in her hand, 
And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem. 
No wrought flowers did adorn. 

But a white rose of Mary's gift, 
For service meetly worn ; 

And her hair lying down her back 
Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Her seemed she scarce had been a day 

One of God's choristers ; 
The wonder was not yet quite gone 

From that still look of hers ; 
Albeit, to them she left, her day 

Had counted as ten years. 

(To one, it is ten years of years, 

Yet now, and in this place. 

Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair 
Fell all about my face 

Nothing : the autumn fall of leaves. 
The whole year sets apace.) 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 163 

It was the rampart of God's house 

That she was standing on ; 
By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is Space begun ; 
So high, that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 

It lies in Heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge. 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and blackness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 

She scarcely heard her sweet new friends : 

Playing at holy games, 
Softly they spake among themselves 

Their virginal chaste names ; 
And the souls, mounting up to God, 

Went by her like thin flames. 

And still she bowed above the vast 

Waste sea of worlds that swarm ; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm. 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of Heaven, she saw 

Time hke a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
Its path ; and now she spoke, as when 

The stars sung in their spheres. 



164 D. G. EOSSETTL 

The sun was gone now. The curled moon 

Was like a little feather 
Fluttering far clown the gulf. And now 

She spoke through the still weather. 
Her voice was like the voice the stars 

Had when they sung together. 

" I wish that he were come to me, 

For he will come," she said. 
" Have I not prayed in Heaven ? — on earthy 

Lord, Lord, has he not prayed ? 
Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? 

And shall I feel afraid ? 

" "When round his head the aureole clings, 

And he is clothed in white, 
I '11 take his hand and go with him 

To the deep wells of light. 
And we will step down as to a stream. 

And bathe there in God's sight. 

" We two will stand beside that shrine. 

Occult, withheld, untrod, 
Whose lamps are stirred continually 

With prayers sent up to God ; 
And see our old prayers, granted, melt 

Each like a little cloud. 

" We two will lie i' the shadow of 

That living mystic tree. 
Within whose secret growth the Dove 

Is sometimes felt to be, 
While every leaf that His plumes touch 

Saith His Name audibly. 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 165 

" And I myself will teach to him, 

I myself, lying so, 
The son^-s I sinn; here ; which his voice 

Shall pause in, hushed and slow, 
And find some knowledge at each pause. 

Or some new thing to know." 

(Ah sweet ! Just now, in that bird's song, 

Strove not her accents tliere 
Fain to be hearkened ? When those bells 

Possessed the midday air. 
Was she not stepping to my side 

Down all the trembling stair ? ) 

" We two," she said, " will seek the groves 

Where the Lady Mary is. 
With her five handmaidens, whose names 

Are five sweet symphonies, 
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 

Margaret, and Rosalys. 

" Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 

And foreheads garlanded ; 
Into the fine cloth white like flame 

Weaving the golden thread. 
To fashion the birth-robes for them 

Who are just born, being dead. 

" He shall fear, haj)ly, and be dumb ; 

Then I will lay my cheek 
To his, and tell about our love, 

Not once abashed or weak ; 
And the dear Mother will approve 

My pride, and let me speak. 



166 D. G. ROSSETTL 

" Plerself shall bring us, hand in hand, 
To Him round whom all souls 

Kneel, the unnumbered ransomed heads 
Bowed with their aureoles : 

And angels meeting us shall sing 
To their citherns and citoles. 

" There will I ask of Christ the Lord 
Thus much for him and me : — 

Only to live as once on earth 
At peace, — only to be, 

A& then awhile, forever now 
Together, I and he." 

She gazed, and listened, and then said, 
Less sad of speech than mild, 

" All this is when he comes." She ceased. 
The light thrilled past her. 

Filled with angels in strong level lapse. 
Her eyes prayed, and she smiled. 

(I saw her smile.) But soon their flight 
Was vague in distant spheres ; 

And then she laid her arms along 
The golden barriers. 

And laid her face between her hands. 
And wept. (I heard her tears.) 



THE HAPPY LIFE OE A PARISH PRIEST IN 

SWEDEN. 

By jean PAUL. 

I WILL begin with winter, and I will suppose it to be 
Christmas. The priest, whom we shall imagine to be a 
German, and summoned from the southern climate of Ger- 
many upon presentation to the church of a Swedish hamlet 
lying in a high polar latitude, rises in cheerfulness about 
seven o'clock in the morning; and till half past nine he 
burns his lamp. At nine o'clock the stars are still shining, 
and the unclouded moon even yet longer. This prolonga- 
tion of starlight into the forenoon is to him delightful ; for 
he is a German, and has a sense of something marvellous in 
a starry forenoon. Methinks I behold the priest and his 
flock moving towards the church with lanterns : the lights 
dispersed amongst the crowd connect the congregation into 
the appearance of some domestic group or larger household, 
and carry the priest back to his childish years during the 
winter season and Christmas matins, when every hand bore 
its candle. Arrived at the pulpit, he declares to his audi- 
ence the plain truth, word for word, as it stands in the 
Gospel : in the presence of God, all intellectual pretensions 
are called upon to be silent ; the very reason ceases to be 
reasonable ; nor is anytliing reasonable in the sight of God 
but a sincere and upright heart. 

• • • • • 

Just as he and his flock are issuing from the church, the 



168 JEAN PAUL. 

bright Christmas sun ascends above the horizon, and shoots 
his beams upon their faces. The old men, who are numer- 
ous in Sweden, are all tinged with the colors of youth by 
the rosy morning-lustre ; and the priest, as he looks away 
from them to mother earth lying in the sleep of winter, and 
to the churchyard, where the flowers and the men are all 
in their graves together, might secretly exclaim with the 
poet : " Upon the dead mother, in peace and utter gloom, 
are reposing the dead children. After a time, uprises the 
everlasting sun ; and the mother starts up at the summons 
of the heavenly dawn with a resurrection of her ancient 
gloom : — And her children ? — Yes : but they must wait 
awhile." 

At home he is awaited by a warm study, and a " long- 
levelled rule " of sunlight upon the book-clad wall. 

The afternoon he spends delightfully ; for, having before 
him such a perfect flower-stand of pleasures, he scarcely 
knows where he should settle. Supposing it to be Christ- 
mas day, he preaches again : he preaches on a subject which 
calls up images of the beauteous Eastern land, or of eter- 
nity. By this time, twilight and gloom prevail through the 
church : only a couple of wax lights upon the altar throw 
wondrous and mighty shadows through the aisles : the angel 
that hangs down from the roof above the baptismal font is 
awoke into a solemn life by the shadows and the rays, 
and seems almost in the act of ascension : through the 
windows, the stars or the moon are beginning to peer : 
aloft, in the pulpit, which is now hid in gloom, the priest is 
inflamed and possessed by the sacred burden of glad tidings 
which he is announcing: he is lost and insensible to all 
besides ; and from amidst the darkness which surrounds 
liim he pours down his thunders, with tears and agitation, 
reasoning of future worlds, and of the heaven of heavens, 
and whatsoever else can most powerfully shake the heart 
and the affections. 



HAPPY LIFE OF A PARISH PRIEST IN SWEDEN. 1G9 

Descending from his pulpit in these holy fervoi*s, he now, 
perhaps, takes a walk : it is about four o'clock : and he walks 
beneath a sky lit up by the shifting northern lights, that to 
his eye appear but an Aurora striking upwards from the 
eternal morning of the south, or as a forest composed of 
saintly thickets, like the fiery bushes of Moses, that are 
round the throne of God. 

Thus, if it be the afternoon of Christmas day : but if it 
be any other afternoon, visitors, perhaps, come and bring 
their well-bred grown-up daughters ; like the fashionable 
world in London, he dines at sunset ; that is to say, like the 
wn-fashionable world of London, he dines at two o'clock ; 
and he drinks coffee by moonlight ; and the parsonage-house 
becomes an enchanted palace of pleasure, gleaming with 
twilight, starlight, and moonlight. Or, perhaps, he goes 
over to the schoolmaster, who is teaching his afternoon 
school : there, by the candlelight, he gathers round his knees 
all the scholars, as if — being the children of his spiritual 
children — they must therefore be his own grandchildren ; 
and with delightful words he wins their attention, and pours 
knowledge into their docile hearts. 

All these pleasures failing, he may pace up and down in 
his library, already, by three o'clock, gloomy with t^\dlight, 
but fitfully enlivened by a glowing fire, and steadily by the 
bright moonlight ; and he needs do no more than ta.ste at 
every turn of his walk a little orange marmalade, to call 
up images of beautiful Italy, and its gardens and orange 
groves, before all his five senses, and, as it were, to the very 
tip of his tongue. Looking at the moon, he will not fail to 
recollect that the very same silver disk hangs at the very 
same moment between the branches of the laurels in Italy. 
It will delight him to consider that the JEolian harp and 
the lark, and indeed music of all kinds, and the stars and 
children, are just the same in hot climates and in cold. 
And when the post-boy, that rides in with news from Italy, 



170 JEAN PAUL. 

winds liis horn througli the hamlet, and with a few simple 
notes raises up on the frozen window of his study a vision 
of flowery realms ; and when he plays with treasured leaves 
of roses and of lilies from some departed summer, or with 
plumes of a bird of Paradise, the memorial of some distant 
friend ; when further, his heart is moved by the magnificent 
sounds of Lady-day, Salad-season, Cherry-time, Trinity- 
Sundays, the rose of June, &c., how can he fail to forget 
that he is in Sweden by the time that his lamp is brought 
in ? and then, indeed, he will be somewhat disconcerted to 
recognize his study in what had now shaped itself to his 
fancy as a room in some foreign land. However, if he 
would pursue this airy creation, he need but light at his 
lamp a wax-candle-end, to gain a glimpse through the 
whole evening into that world of fashion and splendor from 
which he purchased the said wax-candle-end. For I 
should suppose, that at the court of Stockholm, as else- 
where, there must be candle-ends to be bought of the 
state-footmen. 

But now, after the lapse of half a year, all at once there 
strikes upon his heart something more beautiful than Italy, 
where the sun sets so much earlier in summer-time than it 
does at our Swedish hamlet : and what is that ? It is the 
longest day, with the rich freight that it carries in its bosom, 
and leading by the hand the early dawn, blushing with rosy 
light and melodious with the carolling of larks at one 
o'clock in the morning. Before two, that is, at sunrise, 
the elegant party that we mentioned last winter arrive in 
gay clotliing at the parsonage; for they are bound on a 
little excursion of pleasure in company with the priest. At 
two o'clock they are in motion ; at wMch time all the flowers 
are glittering, and the forests are gleaming with the mighty 
light. The warm sun threatens them with no storm nor 
thunder-showers ; for both are rare in Sweden. The priest, 
in common with the rest of the company, is attired in the 



HAPPY LIFE OF A PARISH PRffiST IN SWEDEN. 171 

costume of Sweden ; lie wears his short jacket with a broad 
scarf, his short cloak above that, his round hat with floating 
plumes, and shoes tied with bright ribbons : like the rest 
of the men, he resembles a Spanish knight, or a proven9al, 
or other man of the South ; more especially when he and 
his gay company are seen flying through the lofty foliage 
luxuriant with blossom, that within so short a period of 
weeks has shot forth from the garden-plots and the naked 
boughs. 

That a longest day like this, bearing such a cornucopia 
of sunshine, of cloudless ether, of buds and bells, of blossoms 
and of leisure, should pass away more rapidly than the 
shortest, is not difficult to suppose. As early as eight 
o'clock in the evening the party breaks up ; the sun is now 
burning more gently over the half-closed, sleepy flowers : 
about nine he has mitigated his rays, and is beheld bathing, 
as it were, naked in the blue depths of heaven : about ten, 
at which hour the company reassemble at the parsonage, 
the priest is deeply moved, for throughout the hamlet, 
though the tepid sun, now sunk to the horizon, is still shed- 
ding a sullen glow upon the cottages and tlie window-panes, 
everything reposes in profoundest silence and sleep : tlie 
birds even are all slumbering in the golden summits of the 
w^oods : and at last, the solitary sun himself sets, like a moon, 
amidst the universal quiet of nature. To our priest, walk- 
ing in his romantic dress, it seems as though rosy-colored 
realms were laid open, in which fairies and s^^irits range ; 
and he would scarcely feel an emotion of wonder, if, in this 
hour of golden vision, his brother, who ran away in child- 
hood, should suddenly present himself as one alighting from 
some blooming heaven of enchantment. 

The priest will not allow his company to depart : he 
detains them in the parsonage garden, — where, says he, 
every one that chooses may slumber away in beautiful 
bowers the brief, warm hours until the reappearance of 



172 JEAN PAUL. 

the sun. This proposal is generally adopted ; and the gar- 
den is occupied : many a lovely pair are making believe to 
sleep, but, in fact, are holding each other by the hand. 
The happy priest walks up and down through the parterres. 
Coolness comes, and a few stars. His night-violets and 
gillyflowers open and breathe out their powerful odors. To 
the north, from the eternal morning of the pole, exhales as 
it were a golden dawn. The priest thinks of the village of 
his childhood far away in Germany ; he thinks of the life of 
man, his hopes, and his aspirations : and he is calm and at 
peace with himself. Then all at once starts up the morning 
sun in his freshness. Some there are in the garden who 
would fain confound it with the evening sun, and close their 
eyes again : but the larks betray all, and awaken every 
sleeper from bower to bower. 

Then again begin pleasure and morning in their pomp of 
radiance ; and almost I could persuade myself to delineate 
the course of this day also, though it differs from its pre- 
decessor hardly by so much as the leaf of a rose-bud. 




Stp©s tuiigsmia e©elis. 



THE GOLDEN KEY. 

By GEORGE MACDONALD. 



Children are told that where the foot of the rainbow stands may be 
found a golden key. 



NIGHT'S drooping flags were slowly furled ; 
The sun arose in joy ; 
The boy awoke, and all the world 
Was waiting for the boy. 

And out he ran. The windy air 

Was ready with its play ; 
The earth was bright and clean and fair, 

All for his holiday. 

The hill said, " Climb me " ; and the wood, 

" Come to my bosom, child ; 
I 'm full of gambols : you are good, 

And so you may be wild." 

He went and went. Dark grew the skies, 

And pale the shrinldng sun : 
" How soon," he said, " for clouds to rise, 

"Wlien day was but begun ! " 

The wind grew wild. A wilful power. 

O'er all the land it swept ; 
The boy exulted for an hour. 

Then sat him down and wept. 



174 GEORGE MACDONALD. 

And as he wept, the rain began, 
And rained till all was still : 

He looked, and saw a rainbow span 
The vale from hill to hiU. 

He dried his tears. " Ah ! now," he said, 
" The storm brings good to me : 

Yon sliining hill, ^ — upon its head 
I '11 find the golden key." 

But ere, through wood and over fence. 
He could the simimit scale, 

The rainbow's foot was lifted thence, 
And planted in the vale. 

" But here it stood. Yes, here," he said, 

" Its very foot was set ; 
I saw this fir-tree through the red, 

This through the violet.'* 

He sought and sought, while down the skies 

All slowly went the sun ; 
At length he lifted hopeless eyes, 

And day was nearly done. 

The sunset clouds of radiant red 

Lay on the western foam ; 
And all their rosy light was shed 

On his forgotten home. 

" So near me yet ! happy me. 

No farther to have come ! 
One day I '11 find the golden key, 

But now for happy home ! " 



THE GOLDEN KEY. 175 

He rose, he ran, he bounded on, 

With home and rest before ; 
And just as daylight all was gone, 

He reached his father's door. 

His father stroked his drooping head, 

And gone were all his harms ; 
!His mother kissed him in liis bed. 

And heaven was in her arms. 

He folded then his weary hands, 

And so they let them be ; 
And ere the morn, in rainbow lands, 

He found the golden key. 



JOHN PLAXMAN. 



By SAMUEL SMILES. 



JOHN FLAXMAN was a true genius, — one of the 
greatest artists England has yet produced. He was be- 
sides a person of beautiful character, his life furnishing many 
salutary lessons for men of all ranks. Flaxman was the son 
of a humble seller of plaster-casts in New Street, Covent 
Garden; and when a child, he was so constant an inva- 
lid that it was his custom to sit behind the shop counter 
propped by pillows, amusing himself with drawing and read- 
ing. A benevolent clergyman, named Matthews, one day 
calling at the shop, found the boy trying to read a book, 
and on inquiring what it was, found it was a Cornelius Nepos, 
which his father had picked up for a few pence at a bookstall. 
The gentleman, after some conversation with the boy, said 
that was not the proper book for him to read, but that he 
would bring him a right one on the morrow ; and the kind 
man was as good as his word. The Rev. Mr. Matthews 
used afterwards to say, that from that casual interview with 
the cripple little invalid behind the plaster-cast seller's shop- 
counter, began an acquaintance which ripened into one of 
the best friendships of his life. He brought several books 
to the boy, amongst which were Homer and " Don Quix- 
ote," in both of which Flaxman then and ever after took 
immense delight. His mind was soon full of the heroism 
which breathed through the pages of the former work, and, 




h.oz y /a<C^nC'{y^' 



JOHN FLAXMAN. 177 

with the stucco Ajaxes and Achilleses about him, looming 
along the shop shelves, the ambition thus early took posses- 
sion of him, that he too would design and embody in poetic 
forms those majestic heroes. EQs black chalk was at once 
in his hand, and the enthusiastic boy labored in a divine 
despair to body forth in visible shapes the actions of the 
Greeks and Trojans. 

Like all youthful efforts, his first designs were crude. 
The proud father one day showed them to Roubilliac, the 
sculptor, who turned from them with a contemptuous 
" Pshaw ! " But the boy had the right stuff in him ; he had 
industry and patience ; and he continued to labor incessantly 
at his books and drawings. He then tried his young powers 
in modelling figures in plaster of Paris, wax, and clay ; 
some of these early works are still preserved, not because 
of their merit, but because they are curious as the first 
healthy efforts of patient genius. The boy was long before 
he could walk, and he only learned to do so by hobbling 
along upon crutches. Hence he could not accompany his 
father to see the procession at the coronation of George IH., 
but he entreated his father to bring him back one of the 
coronation medals which were to be distributed amongst the 
crowd. The pressure was too great to enable the father to 
obtain one in the scramble, but, not to disappoint the little 
invalid, he obtained a plated button bearing the stamp of a 
horse and jockey, which he presented to his son as the 
coronation medal. Plis practice at this time was to make 
impressions of all seals and medals that pleased him ; and it 
was for this that he so much coveted the medal. 

His physical health improving, the little Flaxman then 
threw away his crutches. The kind Mr. Matthews invited 
him to his house, where his wife explained Homer and 
Milton to him. They helped him also in his self-culture, — 
giving him lessons in Greek and Latin, the study of which 
he prosecuted at home. When under Mrs. Matthews, he 
12 



178 SAMUEL SMILES. 

also attempted with his bit of charcoal to embody in outline 
on paper such passages as struck his fancy. His drawings 
could not, however, have been very extraordinary, for when 
he showed a drawing of an eye which he had made to Mor- 
timer, the artist, that gentleman, with affected surprise, 
exclaimed, " Is it an oyster ? " The sensitive boy was 
much hurt, and for a time took care to avoid showing his 
drawings to artists, who, though a thin-skinned race, are 
sometimes disposed to be very savage in their criticisms on 
others. At length, by dint of perseverance and study, his 
drawing improved so much that Mrs. Matthews obtained a 
commission for him from a lady, to draw six original draw- 
ings in black chalk of subjects in Homer. His first commis- 
sion ! A great event that in the boy's Hfe. A surgeon's 
first fee, a lawyer's first retainer, a legislator's first speech, 
a singer's first appearance behind the footlights, an author's 
first book, are not any of them more full of interest to the 
individual than the artist's first commission. The boy duly 
executed the order, and was both well praised and well paid 
for his work. 

At fifteen Flaxman entered a student at the Royal 
Academy. He might then be seen principally in the com- 
pany of Blake and Stothard, young men of kindred tastes 
and genius, gentle and amiable, yet ardent in their love 
of art. Notwithstanding his retiring disposition, Flaxman 
soon became known among the students, and great things 
were expected of him. Nor were their expectations dis- 
appointed : in his fifteenth year he gained the silver prize, 
and next year he became a candidate for the gold one. 
Everybody prophesied that he would carry off the medal, 
for there was none who surpassed liim in ability and in- 
dustry. The youth did his best, and in his after-life 
honestly affirmed that he deserved the prize, but he lost it, 
and the gold medal was adjudged to Engleheart, who was not 
afterwards heard of This failure on the part of the youth 



JOHN FLAXMAN. 179 

was really of service to him ; for defeats do not long cast 
down the resolute-hearted, but only serve to call forth their 
real powers. " Give me time," said he to his father, " and 
I will yet produce works that the Academy will be proud 
to recognize." He redoubled his efforts, spared no pains, 
designed and modelled incessantly, and consequently made 
steady if not rapid progress. But meanwhile poverty 
threatened his father's household: the plaster-cast trade 
yielded a very bare living; and young Flaxman, with 
resolute self-denial, curtailed his hours of study, and devoted 
himself to helping his father in the humble details of his 
business. He laid aside his Homer to take up the plaster- 
trowel. He was wilHng to work in the humblest depart- 
ment of the trade so that his father's family might be 
supported, and the wolf kept from the door. To this 
drudgery of his art he served a long apprenticeship ; but it 
did him good. It familiarized him with steady work, and 
cultivated in him the spirit of patience. The discipline may 
have been rough, but it was wholesome. 

Happily young Flaxman's skill in design had reached the 
knowledge of Mr. Wedgwood, who sought him out for the 
purpose of employing him in designing improved patterns 
of china and earthenware to be produced at his manufactory. 
It may seem a humble department of art for Flaxman to 
have labored in ; but it really was not so. An artist may 
be laboring truly in his vocation while designing even so 
common an article as a teapot or a water-jug; articles 
which are in daily use amongst the people, and are before 
theii" eyes at every meal, may be made the veliicles of 
art-education to all, and minister to their highest culture. 
The most ambitious artist may thus confer a greater prac- 
tical benefit on his countrymen than by executing an elab- 
orate work which he may sell for thousands of pounds, to 
be placed in some wealthy man's gallery, where it is hid- 
den away from public sight. Before Wedgwood's time the 



180 SAMUEL SMILES. 

designs wMch figured upon our china and stoneware were 
Mdeous both in drawing and execution, and he determined 
to improve both. Finding out Flaxman, he said to him : 
" Well, my lad, I have heard that you are a good draughts- 
man and clever designer. I 'm a manufacturer of pots, — 
name "Wedgwood. Now, I want you to design some models 
for me, — nothing fantastic, but simple, tasteful, and correct 
in drawing. I '11 pay you well. You don't think the work 
beneath you ? " " By no means, sir," replied Flaxman, 
" indeed, the work is quite to my taste. Give me a few 
days, — call again, and you will see what I can do." 
" That 's right, — work away. Mind, I am in want of them 
now. They are for pots of all kinds, — teapots, jugs, tea- 
cups and saucers. But especially I want designs for a 
table-service. Begin with that. I mean to supply one for 
the royal table. Now, think of that, young man. What 
you design is meant for the eyes of royalty ! " " I will do 
my best, sir, I assure you." And the kind gentleman 
bustled out of the shop as he had come in. 

Flaxman did his best. By the time that Mr. Wedgwood 
next called upon him, he had a numerous series of models 
prepared for various pieces of earthenware. They con- 
sisted chiefly of small groups in very low relief, — the 
subjects taken from ancient verse and history. Many of 
them are still in existence, and some are equal in beauty 
and simpHcity to his after-designs for marble. The cele- 
brated Etruscan vases, many of which were to be found in 
public museums and in the cabinets of the curious, furnished 
him with the best examples of form, and these he embel- 
lished with his own elegant devices. " Stuart's Athens," 
then recently published, also furnished him with specimens 
of the purest-shaped Greek utensils, and he was not slow to 
adopt the best of them, and work them up into new and 
wondrous shapes of elegance and beauty. Flaxman then 
saw that he was laboring in a great work, — no less than 



JOHN FLAXMAN. 181 

the promotion of popular education ; and he was proud in 
after-life to allude to these his early labors, by which he 
was enabled at the same time to cultivate his love of the 
beautiful, to diffuse a taste for art among the people, and to 
replenish his own purse, while he promoted the prosperity 
of his friend and benefactor. 

Engaged in such labors as these, for several years Flax- 
man executed but few works of art, and then at rare 
intervals. He lived a quiet, secluded, and simple life, 
working during the day, and sketching and reading in the 
evenings. He was so poor that he had as yet been only 
able to find plaster of Paris for his works, — marble was 
too dear a material for him. He had hitherto executed 
only one statue in the latter material, and that was a com- 
mission. 

At length, in the year 1782, when twenty-seven years of 
age, he quitted his father's roof and rented a small house 
and studio in Wardour Street, Soho ; and what was more, 
he married, — Ann Denman was the name of his wife, 
and a cheery, bright-souled, noble woman she was. He 
believed that in marrying her he should be able to work 
with an intenser spirit ; for, like him, she had a taste for 
poetry and art, and besides was an enthusiastic admirer of 
her husband's genius. Yet when Sir Joshua Reynolds — 
himself a bachelor — met Flaxman shortly after his mar- 
riage, he said to "him, " So, Flaxman, I am told you are 
married ; if so, sir, I tell you you are ruined for an artist." 
Flaxman went straight home, sat down beside his wife, took 
her hand in his, and said, " Ann, I am ruined for an artist." 
" How so, John ? How has it happened ? and who has 
done it ? " " It happened," he replied, " in the church, and 
Ann Denman has done it." He then told her of Sir 
Joshua's remark, — whose opinion was well known, and had 
often been expressed, that if students would excel they must 
bring the whole powers of their mind to bear upon their art. 



182 SAMUEL SMILES. 

from the moment they rise until they go to bed ; and also, 
that no man could be a great artist unless he studied the 
grand works of Raffaelle, Michael Angelo, and others, at 
Rome and Florence. " And I," said Flaxman, drawing up 
his little figure to its full height, "/would be a great artist." 
" And a great artist you shall be," said his wife, " and visit 
Rome too, if that be really necessary to make you great." 
" But how ? " asked Flaxman, " Work and economize^'' 
rejoined the brave wife ; " I will never have it said that 
Ann Denman ruined John Flaxman for an artist." And 
so it was determined by the pair that the journey to Rome 
was to be made when their means would admit. " I will go 
to Rome," said Flaxman, " and show the President that 
wedlock is for a man's good rather than his harm ; and you, 
Ann, shall accompany me." 

Patiently and happily this affectionate couple plodded on 
during five years in that humble little home in Wardour 
Street ; always with the long journey to Rome before them. 
It was never lost sight of for a moment, and not a penny 
was uselessly spent that could be saved towards the neces- 
sary expenses. They said no word to any one about their 
project, solicited no aid from the Academy, but trusted 
only to their own patient labor and love to pursue and 
achieve their object. During this time Flaxman exhibited 
very few works. He could not afford marble to experiment 
in original designs ; but he obtained frequent commissions for 
monuments, by the profits of which he maintained himself. 
He still worked for the Messrs. Wedgwood, who proved 
good paymasters ; and, on the whole, he was thriving, 
happy, and hopeful. He was not a little respected by his 
neighbors, and those who knew him greatly estimated his 
sincerity, his honesty, and his unostentatious piety. His 
local respectability was even such as to bring local honors 
and local work upon him ; so much so that he was on one 
occasion selected by the rate-payers to collect the watch- 



JOHN FLAXMAN. 183 

rate for the parish of St. Anne, when he might be seen 
going about with an ink-bottle suspended from his button- 
hole, collecting the money. 

At length Flaxman and his wife, having thriftily accumu- 
lated a sufficient store of savings, set out for Rome. Arrived 
there, he applied himself diligently to study, maintaining 
himself, like other poor artists, by making copies from the 
antique. English visitors sought his studio and gave him 
commissions ; and it was then that he composed his beautiful 
designs, illustrative of Homer, ^schylus, and Dante. The 
price paid for them was moderate, — only fifteen shillings 
apiece ; but Flaxman worked for art as well as money, and 
the beauty of the designs brought him new friends and 
patrons. He executed Cupid and Aurora for the munificent 
Thomas Hope, and the Fury of Athamas for the Earl of 
Bristol. He then prepared to return to England, his taste 
improved and cultivated by careful study; but before he 
left Italy, the Academies of Florence and Carrara recog- 
nized his merit by electing him a member. 

His fame had preceded liim to England, and he soon 
found abundant lucrative employment. While at Rome, he 
had been commissioned to execute his famous monument 
in memory of Lord Mansfield, and it was erected in the 
north transept of Westminster Abbey shortly after his re- 
turn. It stands there in majestic grandeur, a monument to 
the genius of Flaxman himself, — calm, simple, and severe. 
No wonder that Banks, the sculptor, then in the heyday of 
his fame, exclaimed when he saw it, " This little man cuts 
us all out!" 

When the bigwigs of the Royal Academy heard of Flax- 
man's return, and especially when they had an Opportunity 
of seeing and admiring his noble portrait-statue of Mans- 
field, they were eager to have him enrolled among their 
number. The Royal Academy has always had the art of 
running to the help of the strong ; and when an artist has 



184 SAMUEL SMILES. 

proved that he can achieve a reputation without the Acade- 
my, then is the Academy most willing to " patronize " him. 
He allowed his name to be proposed in the candidates' list 
of associates, and was immediately elected. His progress 
was now rapid, and he was constantly employed. Perse- 
verance and study, which had matured his genius, had made 
him great, and he went on from triumph to triumph. But 
he appeared in yet a new character. The little boy who 
had begun his studies behind the poor plaster-cast seller's 
shop-counter in New Street, Covent Garden, was now a 
man of high intellect and recognized supremacy in art, to 
instruct aspiring students, in the character of Professor of 
Sculpture to the Royal Academy! And no man better 
deserved to fill that distinguished office ; for none is so able 
to instruct others as he who, for himself and by his own 
almost unaided efforts, has learned to grapple with, and 
overcome difficulties. The caustic Fuseli used to talk of 
the lectures as " sermons by the Reverend John Flaxman " ; 
for the sculptor was a religious man, which Fuseli was not. 
But Flaxman acquitted himself well in the professorial 
chair, as any one who reads his instructive " Lectures ou 
Sculpture," now published, may ascertain for himself. 

Flaxman's monuments are known nearly all over Eng- 
land. Their mute poetry beautifies most of the cathedrals, 
and many of the rural churches. Whatever work of this 
kind he executed, he threw a soul and meaning into it, 
embodying some high Christian idea of charity, of love, of 
resignation, of affection, or of kindness. 




•^ Aitdr.eui'i 



U/ 



'um-fta^y 



RAPHAEL. 



By JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

I SHALL not soon forget that sight : 
The glow of Autumn's westering day, 
A hazy warmth, a dreamy light, 
On Raphael's picture lay. 

It was a simple print I saw, 
The fair face of a musing boy ; 

Yet while I gazed a sense of awe 
Seemed blending with my joy. 

A simple print : — the graceful flow 
Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair, 

And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow 
Unmarked and clear, were there. 

Yet through its sweet and calm repose 

I saw the inward spirit shine ; 
It was as if before me rose 

The white veil of a shrine. 

As if, as Gothland's sage has told, 
The hidden life, the man within, 

Dissevered from its frame and mould, 
By mortal eye were seen. 



186 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

Was it the lifting of that eye, 

The waving of that pictured hand ? 

Loose as a cloud-wreath on the sky, 
I saw the walls expand. 

The narrow room had vanished, — space 
Broad, luminous, remained alone, 

Through which all hues and shapes of grace 
And beauty looked or shone. 

Around the mighty master came 

The marvels which his pencil wrought, 

Those miracles of power whose fame 
Is wide as human thought. 

There drooped thy more than mortal face, 
O Mother, beautiful and mild ! 

Enfolding in one dear embrace 
Thy Saviour and thy Child ! 

The rapt brow of the Desert John ; 

The awful glory of that day. 
When all the Father's brightness shone 

Through manhood's veil of clay. 

And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild 
Dark visions of the days of old. 

How sweetly woman's beauty smiled 
Through locks of brown and gold ! 

There Fornarina's fair young face 
Once more upon her lover shone. 

Whose model of an angel's grace 
He borrowed from her own. 



RAPHAEL. 187 

Slow passed that vision from my view, 

But not the lesson which it taught ; 
The soft, calm shadows which it threw 

Still rested on my thought : 

The truth, that painter, bard, and sage. 
Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime. 

Plant for their deathless heritage 
The fruits and flowers of time. 

We shape ourselves the joy or fear 

Of which the coming life is made. 
And fill our Future's atmosphere 

With sunshine or with shade. 

The tissue of the Life to be 

We weave with colors all our own, 
And in the field of Destiny 

We reap as we have sown. 

Still shall the soul around it call 

The shadows which it gathered here, 
And, painted on the eternal wall. 

The Past shall reappear. 

Think ye the notes of holy song 

On Milton's tuneful ear have died ? 
Think ye that Raphael's angel throng 

Has vanished from his side ? 

O no ! — We live our life again : 

Or warmly touched or coldly dim 
The pictures of the Past remain, — 

Man's works shall follow him ! 



TUNBRIDGE TOYS. 



By W. M. THACKERAY. 

I WONDER whether those little silver pencil-cases with 
a movable almanac at the but-end are still favorite 
implements with boys, and whether pedlers still hawk them 
about the country ? Are there pedlers and hawkers still, or 
are rustics and children grown too sharp to deal with them ? 
Those pencil-cases, as far as my memory serves me, were 
not of much use. The screw upon which the movable 
almanac turned was constantly getting loose. The 1 of the 
table would work from its moorings, under Tuesday or 
Wednesday, as the case might be, and you would find, on 
examination, that Th. or W. was the 23^ of the month 
(which was absurd on the face of the thing), and in a word, 
your cherished pencil-case an utterly unreliable timekeeper. 
Nor was this a matter of wonder. Consider the position of a 
pencil-case in a boy's pocket. You had hard-bake in it; 
marbles, kept in your purse, when the money was all gone ; 
your mother's purse knitted so fondly and supplied with a 
little bit of gold, long since, — prodigal little son ! — scat- 
tered amongst the swine, — I mean amongst brandy-balls, 
open tarts, three-cornered puffs, and similar abominations. 
You had a top and string; a knife; a piece of cobbler's 
wax ; two or three bullets ; a Little Warhler ; and I, for my 
part, remember, for a considerable period, a brass-barrelled 
pocket-pistol (which would fire beautifully, for with it I shot 



TUNBRIDGE TOYS. 189 

off a button from Butt Major's jacket) ; — with all these 
things, and ever so many more, clinking and rattling in 
your pockets, and your hands, of course, keeping them in 
perpetual movement, how could you expect your movable 
almanac not to be twisted out of its place now and again, 
— your pencil-case to be bent, — your liquorice-water not 
to leak out of your bottle over the cobbler's wax, your 
bull's-eyes not to ram up the lock and barrel of your pistol, 
and so forth? 

"" In the month of June, thirty-seven years ago, I bought 
one of those pencil-cases from a boy whom I shall call 
Hawker, and who was in my form. Is he dead ? Is he a 
millionnaire ? Is he a bankrupt now ? He was an immense 
screw at school, and I believe to this day that the value of 
the thing for which I owed and eventually paid three-and- 
sixpence was in reality not one-and-nine. 

I certainly enjoyed the case at first a good deal, and 
amused myself with twiddling round the movable calendar. 
But this pleasure wore off. The jewel, am I said, was not 
paid for, and Hawker, a large and violent boy, was exceed- 
ingly unpleasant as a creditor. His constant remark was, 
" When are you going to pay me that three-and-sixpence ? 
What sneaks your relations must be ! They come to see 
you. You go out to them on Saturdays and Sundays, and 
they never give you anything! Don't tell me, yoii little hum- 
bug ! " and so forth. The truth is, that my relations were 
respectable ; but my parents were making a tour in Scot- 
land ; and my friends in London, whom I used to go and see, 
were most kind to me, certainly, but somehow never tipped 
me. That term, of May to August, 1823, passed in agonies 
then, in consequence of my debt to Hawker. What was 
the pleasure of a calendar pencil-case in comparison with 
the doubt and torture of mind occasioned by the sense of 
the debt, and the constant reproach in that fellow's scowling 
eyes and gloomy, coarse reminders ? How was I to pay off 



190 W. M. THACKERAY. 

such a debt out of sixpence a week ? ludicrous ! Why did 
not some one come to see me, and tip me ? Ah ! my dear 
sir, if you have any little friends at school, go and see them, 
and do the natural thing by them. You won't miss the 
sovereign. Tou don't know what a blessing it will be to 
them. Don't fancy they are too old, — try 'em. And they 
will remember you, and bless you in future days ; and their 
gratitude shall accompany your dreary after life and they 
shall meet you kindly when thanks for kindness are scant. 
mercy ! shall I ever forget that sovereign you gave me. 
Captain Bob ? or the agonies of being in debt to Hawker ? 
In that very term, a relation of mine was going to India. I 
actually was fetched from school in order to take leave of 
him. I am afraid I told Hawker of this circumstance. I 
own I speculated upon my friend's giving me a pound. A 
pound ? Pooh ! A relation going to India, and deeply 
affected at parting from his darling kinsman, might give 
five pounds to the dear fellow ! . . . . There was Hawker 
when I came 4)ack, — of course, there he was. As he 
looked in my scared face, his turned livid with rage. He 
muttered curses, terrible from the lips of so young a boy. 
My relation, about to cross the ocean to fill a lucrative 
appointment, asked me with much interest about my pro- 
gress at school, heard me construe a passage of Eutropius, 
the pleasing Latin work on which I was then engaged, 
gave me a God bless you, and sent me back to school ; upon 
my word of honor, without so much as a half-crown ! It is 
all very well, my dear sir, to say that boys contract habits 
of expecting tips from their parents' friends, that they be- 
come avaricious, and so forth. Avaricious ! fudge ! Boys 
contract habits of tart and toffee eating, which they do not 
carry into after life. On the contrary, I wish I did like 
'em. What raptures of pleasure one could have now for 
five shillings, if one could but pick it off the pastry-cook's 
tray ! No. If you have any little friends at school, out 



TUNBPJDGE TOYS. 191 

wifh your half-crowns, my friend, and impart to those little 
ones the little fleeting joys of their age. 

Well, then. At the beginning of August, 1823, Bartle- 
my-tide holidays came, and I was to go to my parents, 
who were at Tunbridge Wells. My place in the coach was 
taken by my tutor's servants, — Bolt-in-Tun, Fleet Street, 
seven o'clock in the morning, was the word. My tutor, the 

Rev. Edward P , to whom I hereby present my best 

compliments, had a parting interview with me: gave me 
my little account for my governor : the remaining part of the 
coach-hire ; five shillings for my own expenses ; and some 
five-and-twenty shillings on an old account which had been 
overpaid, and was to be restored to my family. 

Away I ran and paid Hawker his three-and-six. Ouf ! 
what a weight it was off my mind ! (He was a Norfolk 
boy, and used to go home from Mrs. Nelson's Bell Inn, 
Aldgate, — but that is not to the point.) The next morn- 
ing, of course, we were an hour before the time. I and 
another boy shared a hackney-coach; two-and-six: porter 
for putting luggage on coach, threepence. I had no more 
money of my own left. Rasherwell, my companion, went 
into the Bolt-in-Tun coffee-room, and had a good breakfast. 
I could n't ; because, though I had five-and-twenty shillings 
of my parents' money, I had none of my own, you see. 

I certainly intended to go without breakfast, and still 
remember how strongly I had that resolution in my mind. 
But there was that hour to wait. A beautiful August 
morning, — I am very hungry. There is Rasherwell 
" tucking " away in the coffee-room. I pace the street, as 
sadly almost as if I had been coming to school, not going 
thence. I turn into a court by mere chance, — I vow it 
was by mere chance, — and there I see a coffee-shop with 
a placard in the window. Coffee Twopence. Round of hut- 
tared toast, Twopence. And here am I hungry, penniless, 
•with five-and-twenty shillings of my parents' money in my 
pocket. 



192 W. M. THACKERAY. 

What would you have done ? You see I had had my 
money, and spent it in that pencil-case affair. The five- 
and-twenty shillings were a trust, — by me to be handed 
over. 

But then would my parents wish their only child to be 
actually without breakfast ? Having this money, and being 
so hungry, so very hungry, might n't I take ever so little. 
Might n't I at home eat as much as I chose ? 

Well, I went into the coffee-shop, and spent fourpence. 
I remember the taste of the coffee and toast to this day, — 
a peculiar, muddy, not-sweet-enough, most fragrant coffee, 
— a rich, rancid, yet not-buttered-enough, delicious toast. 
The waiter had nothing. At any rate, fourpence I know 
was the sum I spent. And, the hunger appeased, I got on 
the coach a guilty being. 

At the last stage — what is its name ? I have forgotten 
in seven-and-thirty years — there is an inn with a little 
green and trees before it ; and by the trees there is an open 
carriage. It is our carriage. Yes, there are Prince and 
Blucher, the horses ; and my parents in the carriage. Oh ! 
how I had been counting the days until this one came. 
Oh ! how happy had I been to see them yesterday ! But 
there was that fourpence. All the journey down, the toast 
had choked me, and the coffee poisoned me. 

I was in such a state of remorse about the fourpence, that 
I forgot the maternal joy and caresses, the tender paternal 
voice. I pull out the twenty-four shillings and eightpence 
with a trembling hand. 

" Here 's your money," I gasp out, " which Mr. P 

owes you, all but fourpence. I owed three-and-sixpence to 
Hawker out of my money for a pencil-case, and I had none 
left, and I took fourpence of yours, and had some coffee at a 
shop." * 

I suppose I must have been choking whilst uttering this 
confession. 



TUNBEIDGE TOYS. - 193 

" My dear boy," says the governor, " why did n't you go 
and breakfast at the hotel ? " 

" He must be starved," says my mother. 

I had confessed ; I had been a prodigal ; I had been taken 
back to my parents' arms again. It was not a very great 
crime as yet, or a very long career of prodigality ; but don't 
we know that a boy who takes a pin which is not his own, 
will take a thousand pounds when occasion serves, bring his 
parents' gray heads with sorrow to the grave, and carry his 
own to the gallows ? Witness the career of Dick Idle, 
upon whom our friend Mr. Sala has been discoursing. 
Dick only began by playing pitch-and-toss on a tombstone : 
playing fair, for what we know ; and even for that sin he 
was promptly caned by the beadle. The bamboo was in- 
effectual to cane that reprobate's bad courses out of him. 
From pitch-and-toss he proceeded to manslaughter if neces- 
sary : to highway robbery ; to Tyburn and the rope there 
Ah ! Heaven be thanked, my parents' heads are still above 
the grass, and mine still out of the noose. 

As I look up from my desk, I see Tunbridge Wells Com- 
mon and the rocks, the strange familiar place which I 
remember forty years ago. Boys saunter over the green 
with stumps and cricket-bats. Other boys gallop by on the 
riding-master's hacks. I protest it is Cramp, Riding-Mas- 
ter, as it used to be in the reign of George IV., and that 
Centaur Cramp must be at least a hundred years old. 
Yonder comes a footman with a bundle of novels from the 
library. Are they as good as our novels ? Oh ! how de- 
lightful they were ! Shades of Yalancour, awful ghost of 
Manfroni, how I shudder at your appearance ! Sweet 
imasre of Thaddeus of Warsaw, how often has this almost 
infantile hand tried to depict you in a Polish cap and richly 
embroidered tights ! And as for Corinthian Tom in light 
blue pantaloons and Hessians, and Jerry Hawthorn from 
the country, can all the fashion, can all the splendor of real 

13 



194 W. M. THACKERAY. 

life which these eyes have subsequently beheld, can all the 
wit I have heard or read in later times, compare with your 
fashion, with your brilliancy, with your delightful grace, and 
sparkling vivacious rattle ? 

Who knows ? They may have kept those very books at 
the library still, — at the well-remembered library on the 
Pantiles, where they sell that delightful, useful Tunbridge 
ware. I will go and see. I went my way to the Pantiles, 
the queer little old-world Pantiles, where a hundred years 
since so much good company came to take its pleasure. Is 
it possible, that in the past century, gentlefolks of the first 
rank (as I read lately in a Lecture on George II. in this 
Magazine) assembled here and entertained each other with 
gaming, dancing, fiddling, and tea ? There are fiddlers, 
harpers, and trumpeters performing at this moment in a 
weak little old balcony, but where is the fine company ? 
Where are the earls, duchesses, bishops, and magnificent 
embroide;red gamesters ? A half-dozen of children and their 
nurses are listening to the musicians ; an old lady or two in 
a poke bonnet passes, and for the rest, I see but an unin- 
teresting population of native tradesmen. As for the li- 
brary, its window is full of pictures of burly theologians, and 
their works, sermons, apologues, and so forth. Can I go in 
and ask the young ladies at the counter for Manfroni, or the 
One-Handed Monk, and Life in London, or the Adventures 
of Corinthian Tom, Jeremiah Hawthorn, Esq., and their 
friend Boh Logic ? — absurd. I turn away abashed from 
the casement, — from the Pantiles, — no longer Pantiles, 
but Parade. I stroll over the Common and survey the 
beautiful purple hills around, twinkling with a thousand 
bright villas, which have sprung up over this charming 
ground since first I saw it. What an admirable scene of 
peace and plenty ! What a delicious air breathes over the 
heath, blows the cloud shadows across it, and murmurs 
through the full-clad trees ! Can the world show a land 



TUNBRIDGE TOYS. 195 

fairer, richer, more cheerful ? I see a portion of it when I 
look up from the window at which I write. But fair scene, 
green woods, bright terraces gleaming in sunshine, and pur- 
ple clouds swollen with summer rain — nay, the very pages 
over which my head bends — disappear from before my 
eyes. They are looking backwards, back into forty years 
off, into a dark room, into a little house hard by on the 
Common here, in the Bartlemy-tide holidays. The parents 
have gone to town for two days : the house is all his own, 
his own and a grim old maid-servant's, and a little boy is 
seated at night in the lonely drawing-room, — poring over 
Manfroni, or the One-Handed Monk, so frightened that he 
scarcely dares to turn round. 



TO THE MOON. 



By WILLIAM WOEDSWORTH. 



aUEEN of the stars ! — so gentle, so benign, 
That ancient Fable did to thee assign, 
When darkness creeping o'er thy silver brow 
Warned thee these upper regions to forego, 
Al:ernate empire in the shades below, — 
A Bard, who, lately near the wide-spread sea 
Traversed by gleaming ships, looked up to thee 
With grateful thoughts, doth now thy rising hail 
From the close confines of a shadowy vale. 
Glory of night, conspicuous yet serene. 
Nor less attractive when by glimpses seen 
Through cloudy umbrage, well might that fair face, 
And all those attributes of modest grace, 
In days when Fancy wrought unchecked by fear, 
Down to the green earth fetch thee from thy sphere, 
To sit in leafy woods by fountains clear ! 

O still beloved (for thine, meek Power, are charms 
That fascinate the very Babe in arms. 
While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs outright. 
Spreading his little palms in his glad Mother's sight) 
still beloved, once worshipped ! Time, that frowns 
In his destructive flight on earthly crowns. 
Spares thy mild splendor ; still those far-shot beams 
Tremble on dancing waves and rippling streams 




©alufiir ]]iL®Fa Qmieiiii- 



TO THE MOON. 197 

With stainless touch, as chaste as wlien thy praise 

Was sung by Virgin-choirs in festal lays ; 

And through dai'k trials still dost thou explore 

Thy way for increase punctual as of yore, 

When teeming Matrons — yielding to rude faith 

In mysteries of birth and life and death 

And painful struggle and deliverance — prayed 

Of thee to visit them with lienient aid. 

What though the rites be swept away, the fanes ' 

Extinct that echoed to the votive strains ; 

Yet thy mild aspect does not, cannot, cease 

Love to promote and purity and peace ; 

And Fancy, unreproved, even yet may trace 

Faint types of suffering in thy beamless face. 

Then, silent Monitress ! let us — not blind 
To worlds unthouo-ht of till the searchinor mind 
Of Science laid them open to mankind — 
Told, also, how the voiceless heavens declare 
God's glory ; and acknowledging thy share 
In that blest charge ; let us — without offence 
To aught of highest, holiest influence — 
Receive whatever good 't is given thee to dispense. 
May sage and simple, catching with one eye 
The moral intimations of the sky, 
Learn from thy course, where'er their own be taken, 
" To look on tempests, and be never shaken " ; 
To keep with faithful step the appointed way 
Eclipsing or eclipsed, by night or day, 
And from example of thy monthly range 
Gently to brook decline and fatal change ; 
Meek, patient, steadfast, and with loftier scope, 
Than thy revival yields, for gladsome hope ! 



CHARACTER OP WATT. 



By lord JEFFREY. 

INDEPKNDENTLY of his great attainments in mechan- 
ics, Mr. Watt was an extraordinary, and in many respects 
a wonderful man. Perhaps no individual in his age possessed 
so much and such varied and exact information, — had read 
so much, or remembered what he had read so accurately 
and weU. He had infinite quickness of apprehension, a pro- 
digious memory, and a certain rectifying and methodizing 
power of understanding, which extracted something precious 
out of all that was presented to it. His stores of miscella- 
neous knowledge were immense, and yet less astonishing 
than the command he had at all times over them. It 
seemed as if every subject that was casually started in con 
versation with him had been that which he had been last 
occupied in studying and exhausting, — such was the copi- 
ousness, the precision, and the admirable clearness of the 
information which he poured out upon it without effort or 
hesitation. Nor was this promptitude and compass of knowl- 
edge confined in any degree to the studies connected with 
his ordinary pursuits. That he should have been minutely 
and extensively skilled in chemistry and the arts, and in 
most of the branches of physical science, might perhaps have 
been conjectured ; but it could not have been inferred from 
his usual occupations, and probably is not generally known, 
that he was curiously learned in many branches of antiouity. 



CHARACTER OF WATT. 199 

metaphysics, medicine, and etymology, and perfectly at home 
in all the details of architecture, music, and law. He was 
well acquainted, too, with most of the modern languages, 
and familiar with their most recent literature. Nor was it 
at all extraordinary to hear the great mechanician and 
engineer detailing and expounding, for hours together, the 
metaphysical theories of the German logicians, or criticising 
the measures or the matter of the German poetry. 

His astonishing memory was aided, no doubt, in a great 
measure, by a still higher and rarer faculty, — by his power 
of digesting and arranging in its proper place all the infor- 
mation he received, and of casting aside and rejecting, as it 
were instinctively, whatever was worthless or immaterial. 
Every conception that was suggested to his mind seemed 
instantly to take its place among its other rich furniture, and 
to be condensed into the smallest and most convenient form. 
He never appeared, therefore, to be at all encumbered or 
perplexed with the verbiage of the dull books he perused, or 
the idle talk to which he listened ; but to have at once ex- 
tracted, by a kind of intellectual alchemy, all that was w^or- 
thy of attention, and to have reduced it, for his own use, to 
its true value and to its simplest form. And thus it often 
happened that a great deal more was learned from his brief 
and vigorous account of the theories and arguments of 
tedious writers, than an ordinary student could ever have 
derived from the most painful study of the originals, and 
that errors and absurdities became manifest, from the mere 
clearness and plainness of his statement of them, which might 
have deluded and perplexed most of his hearers without that 
invaluable assistance. 

It is needless to say that, with those vast resources, his 
conversation was at all times rich and instructive in no ordi- 
nary degree : but it was, if possible, still more pleasing than 
wise, and had all the charms of familiarity, with all the sub- 
stantial treasures of knowledge. No man could be more 



200 LORD JEFFREY. 

social in his spirit, less assuming or fastidious in his man- 
ners, or more kind and indulgent towards all who ap- 
proached him. He rather liked to talk, — at least in his 
latter years ; but though he took a considerable share of the 
conversation, he rarely, suggested the topics on which it was 
to turn, but readily and quietly took up whatever was pre- 
sented by those around him, and astonished the idle and 
barren propounders of an ordinary theme by the treasures 
which he drew from the mine they had unconsciously opened. 
He generally seemed, indeed, to have no choice or predilec- 
tion for one subject' of discourse rather than another ; but 
allowed his mind, like a great cyclopaedia, to be opened at 
any letter his associates might choose to turn up, and only 
endeavor to select from his inexhaustible stores what might 
be best adapted to the taste of his present hearers. As to 
their capacity he gave himself no trouble ; and, indeed, such 
was liis singular talent for making all tilings plain, clear, 
and intelligible, that scarcely any one could be aware of such 
a deficiency in his presence. His talk, too, though overflow- 
ing with information, had no resemblance to lecturing or 
solemn discoursing, but, on the contrary, was full of collo- 
quial spirit and pleasantry. He had a certain quiet and 
grave humor, which ran through most of his conversation, 
and a vein of temperate jocularity, which gave infinite zest 
and effect to the condensed and inexhaustible information 
which formed its main staple and characteristic. There was 
a little air of affected testiness, and a tone of pretended 
rebuke and contradiction, with which he used to address 
his younger friends, that was always felt by them as an en- 
dearing mark of his kindness and familiarity, and prized 
accordingly, far beyond all the solemn compliments that ever 
proceeded from the lips of authority. His voice was deep 
and powerful, though he commonly spoke in a low and 
somewhat monotonous tone, which harmonized admirably 
with the weight and brevity of his observations, and set off 



CHARACTER OF WATT. 201 

to the greatest advantage the pleasant anecdotes, which he 
delivered with the same grave brow, and the same calm 
smile playing soberly on his lips. There was nothing of 
effort, indeed, or impatience, any more than of pride or lev- 
ity, in his demeanor ; and there was a finer expression of 
reposing strength and mild self-possession m his manner 
than we ever recollect to have met with in any other person. 
He had in his character the utmost abhorrence for all sorts 
of forwardness, parade, and pretensions ; and, indeed, never 
failed to put all such impostures out of countenance, by the 
manly plainness and honest intrepidity of his language and 
deportment. 

In his temper and dispositions he was not only kind and 
affectionate, but generous, and considerate of the feelings of 
all around him, and gave the most liberal assistance and 
encouragement to all young persons who showed any iildi- 
cations of talent, or applied to him for patronage or advice. 
His health, which was delicate from his youth upwards, 
seemed to become firmer as he advanced in years ; and he 
preserved, up almost to the last moment of liis existence, 
not only the full command of his extraordinary intellect, but 
all the alacrity of spirit and the social gayety which had 
illumined his happiest days. His friends in this part of the 
country never saw him more full of intellectual vigor and 
colloquial animation — never more delightful or more in- 
structive — than in liis last visit to Scotland in autumn, 
1817. Indeed, it was after that time that he aj^plied him- 
self, with all the ardor of early life, to the invention of a 
machine for mechanically coj^ying all sorts of sculpture and 
statuary, and distributed among his friends some of its 
earhest performances, as the productions of a young artist 
just entering on his eighty-third year. 

This happy and useful life came at last to a gentle 
close. He had suffered some inconvenience through the 
Bummer, but was not seriously indisposed till within a few 



202 LORD JEFFEEY. 

weeks from his death. He then became perfectly aware of 
the event which was approaching ; and, with his usual tran- 
quillity and benevolence of nature, seemed only anxious to 
point out to the friends around him the many sources of 
consolation which were aitorded by the circumstances under 
which it was about to take place. He expressed liis sincere 
gratitude to Providence for the length of days with which 
he had been blessed, and his exemption from most of the 
infirmities of age, as well as for the calm and cheerful even- 
ing of life that he had been permitted to enjoy, after the 
honorable labors of the day had been concluded. And thus, 
full of years and honors, in all calmness and tranquillity, he 
yielded up his soul, without pang or struggle, and passed 
from the bosom of his family to that of his Gop. 



LOVE-LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS. 

ON A PRINT OF ONE OP THEM IN A BOOK. 

By LEIGH HUNT. 

AN exquisite invention this, 
Worthy of Love's most honeyed Idss, 
This art of writing hillet-doux 
Li buds, and odors, and bright hues ! 
In saying all one feels and thinks 
In clever daffodils and pinks ; 
In puns of tulips ; and in phrases, 
Charming for their truth, of daisies ; 
Uttering, as well as silence may. 
The sweetest words the sweetest way. 
How fit, too, for the lady's bosom ! 
The place where hillet-doux repose 'em. 

What delight, in some sweet spot 
Combining love with garden plot, 
At once to cultivate one's flowers 
And one's epistolary powers ! 
Growing one's own choice words and fancies 
In orange tubs and beds of pansies ; 
One's sighs and passionate declarations 
In odorous rhetoric of carnations ; 
Seeing how far one's stocks will reach ; 
Taking due care one's flowers of speech 



204 LEIGH HUNT. 

To guard from blight as well as bathos, 
And watering every day one's pathos ! 

A letter comes just gathered. We 

Dote on its tender brilliancy ; 

Lihale its delicate expressions 

Of balm and pea, and its confessions 

Made with as sweet a Maiden's Blush 

As ever morn bedewed on bush, 

('T is in reply to one of ours, 

Made of the most convincing flowers,) 

Then after we have kissed its wit 

And heart, in water putting it, 

(To keep its remarks fresh,) go round 

Our little eloquent plot of ground. 

And with enchanted hands compose 

Our answer, all of lily and rose, 

Of tuberose and of violet. 

And Little Darling (Mignonette) 

Of Look at me and Gall me to you 

(Words, that while they greet, go through you), 

Of Thoughts, of Flames, Forget-me-not, 

Bridewort, — in short, the whole blest lot 

Of vouchers for a life-long kiss, 

And literally, breathing bliss. 



THE VIRTUOUS LADY. 



By THOMAS FULLER. 



TO describe a holy state without a virtuous lady therein, 
were to paint out a year without a spring : we come 
therefore to her character. 

She sets not her face so often by her glass, as she com- 
poseth her soul by God's word. Which hath all the excel- 
lent qualities of a glass indeed. 

1. It is clear; in all points necessary to salvation, except 
to such whose eyes are blinded. 

2. It is true; not like those false glasses some ladies 
dress themselves by. And how common is flattery, when 
even glasses have learnt to be parasites ! 

3. It is large ; presenting all spots cap-a-pie, behind and 
before, within and without. 

4. It is durable ; though in one sense it is broken too 
often (when God's laws are neglected), yet it will last to 
break them that break it, and one tittle thereof shall not fidl 
to the ground. 

5. This glass hath power to smooth the wrinkles, cleanse 
the spots, and mend the faults it discovers. 

She walks humbly before God in all religious duties. 
Humbly ; for she well knows that the strongest Christian is 
like the city of Rome, which was never besieged, but it was 
talvcn; and the best saint without God's assistance would 
be as often foiled as tempted. She is most constant and 



206 THOMAS FULLEK. 

diligent at her hours of private prayer. Queen Catharine 
Dowager never kneeled on a cushion when she was at her 
devotions : this matters not at all ; our lady is more careful 
of her heart than of her knees, that her soul be settled 
aright. 

She is careful and most tender of her credit and reputa- 
tion. There is a tree in Mexicana which is so exceedingly 
tender, that a man cannot touch any of his branches but it 
withers presently. A lady's credit is of equal niceness, a 
small touch may wound and kill it ; which makes her very 
cautious what company she keeps. The Latin tongue seems 
somewhat injurious to the feminine sex ; for whereas there- 
in " amicus " is a friend, " amica " always signifies a sweet- 
heart ; as if their sex, in reference to men, were not capable 
of any other kind of familiar friendship, but in way to mar- 
riage : which makes our lady avoid all privacy with suspi- 
cious company. 

Yet is she not more careful of her own credit than of 
God's glory ; and stands up valiantly in the defence thereof. 
She hath read how at the coronation of King Richard the 
Second, Dame Margaret Dimock, wife to Sir John Dimock, 
came into the court, and claimed the place to be the king's 
champion, by the virtue of the tenure of her manor of 
Scrinelby in Lincolnshire, to challenge and defy all such as 
opposed the king's right to the crown. But if our lady 
hears any speaking disgracefully of God or religion, she 
counts herself bound by her tenure (whereby she holds pos- 
session of grace here, and reversion of glory hereafter) to 
assert and vindicate the honor of the King of Heaven, 
whose champion she professeth to be. One may be a lamb 
in private wrongs, but in hearing general affronts to good- 
ness, they are asses which are not hons. 

She is pitiful and bountiful to people in distress. "We 
read how a daughter of the Duke of Exeter invented a 
brake or cruel rack to torment people withal, to which pur- 



THE VIRTUOUS LADY. 207 

pose it was long reserved, and often used in the Tower of 
London, and commonly called (was it not fit so pretty a 
babe should bear her mother's name?) the Duke of Exe- 
ter's Daughter. Methinks the finding out of a salve to 
ease poor people in pain had borne better proportion to 
her ladyship than to have been the inventor of instruments 
of cruelty. 

She is a good scholar, and well learned in useful authors. 
Indeed, as in purchases a house is valued at nothing, because 
it returneth no profit, and requires great charges to maintain 
it ; so, for the same reasons, learning in a woman is but little 
to be prized. But as for great ladies, who ought to be a 
confluence of all rarities and perfections, some learning in 
them is not only useful, but necessary. 

In discourse, her words are rather fit than fine, very 
choice, and yet not chosen. Though her language be not 
gaudy, yet the plainness thereof pleaseth, it is so proper, 
and handsomely put on. Some, having a set of fine phrases, 
will hazard an impertinency to use them all, as thinking 
they give full satisfaction, for dragging in the matter by 
head and shoulders, if they dress it in quaint expressions. 
Others often repeat the same things, the Platonic year of 
their discourses being not above three days' long, in which 
term all the same matter returns over again, threadbare 
talk ill suiting with the variety of their clothes. 

She affects not the vanity of foolish fiishions ; but is de- 
cently apparelled according to her state and condition. He 
that should have guessed the bigness of Alexander's soldiers 
by their shields left in India, would much overj)roportion 
their true greatness. But what a vast overgrown creature 
would some guess a woman to be, taking his aim by the 
multitude and variety of clothes and ornaments which some 
of them use : insomuch as the ancient Latins called a wo- 
man's wardrobe, " mundus," a world ; wherein notwithstand- 
ing was much "terra incognita," then undiscovered, but 



208 THOMAS FULLER. 

since found out by the curiosity of modern fasliion-mongers. 
We find a map of this world drawn by God's spirit, Isaiah 
iii. 18, wherein one and twenty women's ornaments (all 
superfluous) are reckoned up, which at this day are much 
increased. The moons,' there mentioned, which they wore 
on their heads, may seem since grown to the full in the 
luxury of after ages. 

She is contented with that beauty which God hath given 
her. If very handsome, no whit the more proud, but far 
the more thankful : if unhandsome, she labors to better it in 
the virtues of her mind ; that what is but plain cloth with- 
out may be rich plush within. Indeed, such natural defects 
as hinder her comfortable serving of God in her calHng 
may be amended by art; and any member of the body 
being defective, may thereby be lawfully supplied. Thus 
glass eyes may be used, though not for seeing, for sightli- 
ness. But our lady detesteth all adulterate complexions, 
finding no precedent thereof in the Bible save one, and her 
so bad, that ladies would blush through their paint, to make 
her the pattern of their imitation. Yet there are many that 
think the. grossest fault in painting, is to paint grossly, 
(making their faces with thick daubing, not only new pic- 
tures, but new statues,) and that the greatest sin therein, is 
to be discovered. 

In her marriage^ she principally respects virtue and re- 
ligion, and next that, other accommodations, as we have for- 
merly discoursed of. And she is careful in match, not to 
bestow herself unworthily beneath her own degree to an 
ignoble person, except in case of necessity. Thus the gen- 
tlewomen in Champaigne in France, some three hundred 
years since, were enforced to marry yeomen and farmers, 
because all the nobility in that country were slain in the 
wars, in the two voyages of King Louis to Palestine : and 
thereupon ever since by custom and privilege, the gentle- 
women of Champaigne and Brie ennoble their husbands, 



THE VIRTUOUS LADY. 209 

and give tliem honor in marrying them, how mean soever 
before. 

Though pleasantly affected, she is not transported with 
court delights ; as in their stately masques and pageants. 
By degrees she is brought from delighting in such masques, 
only to be contented to see them, and at last, perchance, 
could desire to be excused from that also. 

Yet in her reduced thoughts she makes all the sport she 
hath seen earnest to herself: it must be a dry jflower indeed 
out of which this bee sucks no honey: they are the best 
Origens, who do allegorize all earthly vanities into heavenly 
truths. When she remembereth how suddenly the scene in 
the masque was altered (almost before moment itself could 
take notice of it), she considereth, how quickly mutable all 
things are in this world, God ringing the changes on all 
accidents, and making them tunable to his glory : the lively 
representing of things so curiously, that Nature herself might 
grow jealous of art, in out-doing her, minds our lady to 
make sure work with her own soul, seeing hypocrisy may 
be so like to sincerity. But what a wealthy exchequer 
of beauties did she there behold, several faces most different, 
most excellent (so great is the variety even in bests), what 
a rich mine of jewels above ground, all so brave, so costly ! 
To give court-masques their due, of all the bubbles in this 
world, they have the greatest variety of fine colors. But 
all is quickly ended : this is the spite of the world, if ever 
she affordeth fine ware, she always pincheth it in the meas- 
ure, and it lasts not long. But 0, thinks our lady, how 
glorious a place is heaven, where there are joys forever- 
more. If a herd of kine should meet together to fancy and 
define happiness, they would place it to consist in fine pas- 
tures, sweet grass, clear water, shadowy groves, constant 
summer ; but if any winter, then warm shelter and dainty 
hay, with company after their kind, counting these low 
things the highest happiness, because their conceit can reach 

14 



210 THOMAS FULLER. 

no higher. Little better do the heathen poets describe 
heaven, .paving it with pearl, and roofing it with stars, filling 
it with gods and goddesses, and allowing them to drink 
(as if without it no poet's paradise) nectar and ambrosia; 
heaven indeed being "poetarum dedecus," the shame of 
poets, and the disgrace of all their hyperboles, falling as far 
short of truth herein, as thej go beyond it in other fables. 
However, the sight of such glorious earthly spectacles ad- 
vantageth our lady's conceit by infinite multipHcation thereof 
to consider of heaven. 

She reads constant lectures to herself of her own mortal- 
ity. To smell to a turf of fresh earth is wholesome for the 
body ; no less are thoughts of mortality cordial to the soul. 
" Earth thou art, to earth thou shalt return." The sight of 
death when it cometh will neither be so terrible to her, nor 
so strange, who hath formerly often beheld it in her serious 
meditations. With Job she saith to the worm, " Thou art 
my sister." If fair ladies scorn to own the worms, their 
kindred in this life, their kindred will be bold to challenge 
them when dead in their graves : for when the soul (the 
best perfume of the body) is departed from it, it becomes 
so noisome a carcass, that, should I make a description of 
the loathsomeness thereof, some dainty dames would hold 
their noses in reading it. 

To conclude : we read how Henry, a German prince, was 
admonished by revelation to search for a writing in an old 
wall, which should nearly concern him, wherein he found 
only these two words written, post sex, after six. Where- 
upon Henry conceived that his death was foretold, which 
after six days should ensue, which made him pass those 
days in constant preparation for the same. But finding the 
six days past without the effect he expected, he successively 
persevered in his godly resolutions six weeks, six months, 
six years, and on the first day of the seventh year the 
prophecy was fulfilled, though otherwise than he interpreted 



THE VIRTUOUS LADY. 211 

it; for thereupon he was chosen Emperor of Germany, 
having before gotten such a habit of piety, that he persisted 
in his rehgious course forever after. Thus our lady hath so 
inured herself " all the days of her appomted time to wait 
till her change cometh," that, expecting it every hour, she is 
always provided for that than which notlnng is more cer- 
tain or uncertain. 



ALL^S ¥ELL. 



By D. a. WASSON. 



SWEET-VOICED Hope, thy fine discourse 
Foretold not half life's good to me ; 
Thy painter, Fancy, hath not force 
To show how sweet it is to be ! 
Thy witching dream 
And pictured scheme 
To match the fact still want the power ; 
Thy promise brave 
From birth to grave 
Life's bloom may beggar in an hour. 

Ask and receive, — 't is sweetly said ; 
Yet what to plead for know I not ; 
For Wish is worsted, Hope o'ersped, 
And aye to thanks returns my thought. 

K I would pray, 

I 've naught to say 
But this, that God may be God still, 

For Him to live 

Is still to give. 
And sweeter than my wish his will. 

wealth of life beyond all bound ! 
Eternity each moment given ! 



ALL 'S WELL. 213 

What plummet may the Present somid ? 
Who promises 21. future heaven? 

Or glad, or grieved, 

Oppressed, relieved, 
In blackest night, or brightest day, 

Still pours the flood 

Of golden good. 
And more than heartfuU fills me aye. 

My wealth is common ; I possess 

No petty province, but the whole ; 
What 's mine alone is mine far less 
Than treasure shared by every soul. 

Talk not of store. 

Millions or more, — 
Of values which the purse may hold, — 

But this divine ! 

I own the mine 
Whose grains outweigh a planet's gold. 

I have a stake in every star. 

In every beam that fills the day ; 
All hearts of men my coffers are, 
My ores arterial tides convey ; 
The fields, the skies, 
And sweet replies 
Of thought to thought are my gold-dust, — 
The oaks, the brooks. 
And speaking looks 
Of lovers' faith and friendship's trust. 

Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flow 

For him who lives above all years. 
Who all-immortal makes the Now, 

And is not ta'en in Time's arrears, ^ 



214 D. A. WASSON. 

His life's a hjmn 

The seraphim 
Might hark to hear or help to sing, 

And to his soul 

The boundless whole 
Its bounty all doth daily bring. 

" All mine is thine," the sky-soul saith ; 
" The wealth I am, must thou become 
Richer and richer, breath by breath, — 
Immortal gain, immortal room ! " 

And since all his 

Mine also is. 
Life's gift outruns my fancies far, 

And drowns the dream 

In larger stream. 
As morning drinks the morning-star. 



CARLAYERO'S BOTTLE. 



By CHARLES DICKENS. 

THE rising of the Italian people from under their unut- 
terable wrongs, and the tardy burst of day upon them 
after the long, long night of oppression that has darkened 
their beautiful country, has naturally caused my mind to 
dwell often of late on my own small wanderings in Italy. 
Connected with them is a curious little drama, in which the 
character I myself sustained was so very subordinate, that I 
may relate its story without any fear of being suspected of 
self-display. It is strictly a true story. 

I am newly arrived one summer evening, in a certain 
small town on the Mediterranean. I have had my dinner 
at the inn, and I and the mosquitoes are coming out into the 
streets together. It is far from Naples ; but a bright brown 
plump little woman-servant at the inn is a Neapolitan, and 
is so vivaciously expert in pantomimic action, that in the 
single moment of answering my request to have a pair 
of shoes cleaned which I left up-stairs, she plies imaginary 
brushes, and goes completely through the motions of polish- 
ing the shoes up, and laying them at my feet. I smile at the 
brisk little woman in perfect satisfaction with her briskness ; 
and the brisk little woman, amiably pleased with me be- 
cause I am pleased with her, claps her hands and laughs 
delightfully. We are in the inn yard. As the little 
woman's bright eyes sparkle on the cigarette I am smoking, 



216 CHARLES DICKENS. 

I make bold to offer her one ; she accepts it none the less 
merrily because I touch a most charming little dimple in 
her fat cheek with its light paper end. Glancing up at the 
many green lattices, to assure herself that the mistress is not 
looking on, the little woman then puts her two little dimpled 
arms akimbo, and stands on tiptoe to light her cigarette at 
mine. "And now, dear little sir," says she, puffing out 
smoke in a most innocent and cherubic manner, " keep quite 
straight on, take the first to the right, and probably you will 
see him standing at his door." 

I have a commission to " him," and I have been inquiring 
about him. I have carried the commission about Italy sev- 
eral months. Before I left England, there came to me one 
night a certain generous and gentle English nobleman, — - he 
is dead in these days when I relate the story, and exiles 
have lost their best British friend, — with this request : 
" Whenever you come to such a town, will you seek out one 
Giovanni Carlavero, who keeps a little wine-shop there. 
Mention my name to him suddenly, and observe how it 
affects him ? " I accepted the trust, and am on my way to 
discharge it. 

The sirocco has been blowing all day, and it is a hot, un- 
wholesome evening, with no cool sea-breeze. Mosquitoes 
and fireflies are lively enough, but most other creatures are 
faint. The coquettish airs of pretty young women in the 
tiniest and wickedest of dolls' straw hats, who lean out at 
open lattice blinds, are almost the only airs stirring. Very 
ugly and haggard old women with distaffs, and with a gray 
tow upon them that looks as if they were spinning out their 
own hair, (I suppose they were once pretty, too, but it is 
very difficult to believe so,) sit on the footway leaning 
against house-walls. Everybody who has come for water 
to the fountain stays there, and seems incapable of any such 
energetic idea as going home. Vespers are over, though 
not so long but that I can smell the heavy resinous incense 



CARLAVERO'S BOTTLE. 217 

as I pass the church. No man seems to be at work, save 
the coppersmith. In an Italian town he is always at work, 
and always thumping in the deadliest manner. 

I keep straight on, and come in due time to the first on 
the right : a narrow, dull street, where I see a well-favored 
man of good stature and military bearing, in a great cloak, 
standing at a door. Drawing nearer to this threshold, I see 
it is the threshold of a small wine-shop ; and I can just make 
out, in the dim light, the inscription that it is kept by Gio- 
vanni Carlavero. 

I touch my hat to the figure in the cloak, and pass in, and 
draw a stool to a little table. Tlie lamp (just such another 
as they dig out of Pompeii) is lighted, but the place is emp- 
ty. The figure in the cloak has followed me in, and stands 
before me. 

" The master ? " 

" At your servic.e, sir." 

" Please to give me a glass of the wine of the country." 

He turns to a little counter, to get it. As his striking 
face is pale, and his action is evidently that of an enfeebled 
man, I remark that I fear he has been ill. It is not much, 
he courteously and gravely answers, though bad while it 
lasts : the fever. 

As he sets the wine on the little table, to his manifest 
surprise I lay my hand on the back of his, look liim in the 
face, and say in a low voice : " I am an Englishman, and 
you are acquainted with a friend of mine. Do you recol- 
lect ? " and I mention the name of my generous coun- 
tryman. 

Instantly he utters a loud cry, bursts into tears, and falls 
on his knees at my feet, clasping my legs in both his arms 
and bowing his head to the ground. 

Some years ago, this man at my feet, whose overfraught 
heart is heaving as if it would burst from liis breast, and 
whose tears are wet upon the dress I wear, was a galley- 



218 CHARLES DICKENS. 

slave in the North of Italy. He was a political offender, 
having been concerned in the then last rising, and was sen- 
tenced to imprisonment for life. That he would have died 
in his chains is certain, but for the circumstance that the 
Englishman happened to visit his prison. 

It was one of the vile old prisons of Italy, and a part of 
it was below the waters of the harbor. The place of his 
confinement was an arched underground and under-water 
gallery, with a grill-gate at the entrance, through which it 
received such light and air as it got. Its condition was 
insufferably foul, and a stranger could hardly breathe in it, 
or see in it with the aid of a torch. At the upper end of 
this dungeon, and consequently in the worst position, as 
being the farthest removed from light and air, the English- 
man first beheld him, sitting on an iron bedstead, to which 
he was chained by a heavy chain. His countenance im- 
pressed the Englishman as having nothing in common with 
the faces of the malefactors with whom he was associated, 
and he talked with him, and learned how he came to be 
there. 

When the Englishman emerged from the dreadful den 
into the light of day, he asked his conductor, the governor 
of the jail, why Giovanni Carlavero was put into the worst 
place. 

" Because he is particularly recommended," was the strin- 
gent answer. 

" Recommended, that is to say, for death ? " 

" Excuse me ; particularly recommended," was again the 
answer. 

" He has a bad tumor in his neck, no doubt occasioned by 
the hardship of his miserable life. If it continues to be neg- 
lected, and he remains where he is, it will kill him." 

" Excuse me, I can do nothing. He is particularly rec- 
ommended." 

The Englishman was staying in that town, and he went 



CARLAVEEO'S BOTTLE. 219 

to his home there ; but the figure of this man chained to the 
bedstead made it no home, and destroyed his rest and peace. 
He was an Englishman of an extraordinarily tender heart, 
and he could not bear the picture. He went back to the 
prison gate : went back again and again, and talked to the 
man and cheered him. He used his utmost influence to get 
the man unchained from the bedstead, were it only for ever 
so short a time in the day, and permitted to come to the 
grate. It took a long time, but the Englishman's station, 
personal character, and steadiness of purpose wore out oppo- 
sition so far, and that grace was at last accorded. Through 
the bars, when he could thus get light upon the tumor, the 
Englishman lanced it, and it did well, and healed. His 
strong interest in the prisoner had greatly increased by this 
time, and he formed the desperate resolution that he would 
exert his utmost self-devotion and use his utmost efforts to 
get Carlavero pardoned. 

If the prisoner had been a brigand and a murderer, if he 
had committed every non-political crime in the Newgate 
Calendar and out of it, nothing would have been easier than 
for a man of any court or priestly influence to obtain his re- 
lease. As it was, nothing could have been more difficult. 
Italian authorities, and English authorities who had interest 
with them, alike assured the Englishman that his object was 
hopeless. He met with nothing but evasion, refusal, and 
ridicule. His political prisoner became a joke in the place. 
It was especially observable that English Circumlocution, 
and English Society on its travels, were as humorous on the 
subject as Circumlocution and Society may be on any subject 
without loss of caste. But the Englishman possessed (and 
proved it well in his life) a courage very uncommon among 
us ; he had not the least fear of being considered a bore, in 
a good, humane cause. So he went on persistently trying, 
and trying, and trying to get Giovanni Carlavero out. 
That prisoner had been rigorously rechained, after the tumor 



220 CHARLES DICKENS. 

operation, and it was not likelj that his miserable life could 
last very long. 

One day, when all the town knew about the Englishman 
and his political prisoner, there came to the Enghshman a 
certain sprightly Italian advocate of whom he had some 
knowledge ; and he made this strange proposal : " Give me 
a hundred pounds to obtain Carlavero's release. I think I 
can get him a pardon with that money. But I cannot tell 
you what I am going to do with the money, nor must you 
ever ask me the question if I succeed, nor must you ever 
ask me for an account of the money if I fail." The English- 
man decided to hazard the hundred pounds. He did so, and 
heard not another word of the matter. For half a year and 
more the advocate made no sign, and never once "took 
on " in any way to have the subject on his mind. The 
Englishman was then obliged to change his residence to 
another and more famous town in the North of Italy. He 
parted from the poor prisoner with a sorrowful heart, as 
from a doomed man for whom there was no release but 
Death. 

The Englishman lived in his new place of abode another 
half-year or more, and had no tidings of the wretched pris- 
oner. At length, one day, he received from the advocate a 
cool, concise, mysterious note, . to tliis effect. " If you still 
wish to bestow that benefit upon the man in whom you were 
once interested, send me fifty pounds more, and I think it 
can be insured." Now, the Englishman had long settled in 
his mind that the advocate was a heartless sharper, who 
had preyed upon his credulity and his interest in an unfor- 
tunate sufferer. So he sat down and wrote a dry answer, 
giving the advocate to understand that he was wiser now 
than he had been formerly, and that no more money was 
extractable from his pocket. 

He lived outside the city gates, some mile or two from the 
post-office, and was accustomed to walk into the city with 



CARLAVERO'S BOTTLE. 221 

his letters and post them himself. On a lovelj spring day, 
when the sky was exquisitely blue, and the sea divinely 
beautiful, he took his usual walk, carrying this letter to the 
advocate in his pocket. As he went along, his gentle heart 
was much moved by the loveliness of the prospect, and by 
the thought of the slowly-dying prisoner chained to the bed- 
stead, for whom the universe had no delights. As he drew 
nearer and nearer to the city where he was to post the let- 
ter, he became very uneasy in his mind. He debated with 
himself, was it remotely possible, after all, that this sum of 
fifty pounds could restore the fellow-creature whom he pitied 
so much, and for whom he had striven so hard, to liberty ? 
He was not a conventionally rich Englishman, — very far 
from that, — but he had a spare fifty pounds at the banker's. 

He resolved to risk it. Without doubt, God has recom- 
pensed him for the resolution. 

He went to the banker's, and got a bill for the amount, 
and enclosed it in a letter to the advocate that I wish I 
could have seen. He simply told the advocate that he was 
quite a poor man, and that he was sensible it might be a 
great weakness in him to part with so much money on the 
faith of so vague a communication ; but that there it was, 
and that he prayed the advocate to make a good use of it. 
If he did otherwise, no good could ever come of it, and it 
would lie heavy on his soul one day. 

Within a week, the Englishman was sitting at his break- 
fast, when he heard some suppressed sounds of agitation on 
the staircase, and Giovanni Carlavero leaped into his room 
and fell upon liis breast, a free man ! 

Conscious of having wronged the advocate in his own 
thoughts, the Englishman wrote him an earnest and gi-ateful 
letter, avowing the fact, and entreating him to confide by 
what means and through what agency he had succeeded so 
well. The advocate returned for answer through the post : 
'* There are many things, as you know, in tliis Italy of 



222 CHAKLES DICKENS. 

ours that are safest and best not even spoken of, — far less 
written of. We may meet some day, and then I may tell 
you what you want to know ; not here, and now." But the 
two never did meet again. The advocate was dead when 
the Englishman gave me my trust ; and how the man had 
been set free remained as great a mystery to the English- 
man, and to the man himself, as it was to me. 

But I knew this : here was the man, this sultry night, 
on his knees at my feet, because I was the Englishman's 
friend ; here were his tears upon my dress ; here were his 
sobs, choking his utterance ; here were his kisses on my 
hands, because they had touched the hands that had worked 
out his release. He had no need to tell me it would be hap- 
piness to him to die for his benefactor : I doubt if I ever saw 
real, sterling, fervent gratitude of soul before or since. 

He was much watched and suspected, he said, and had 
had enough to do to keep himself out of trouble. This, and 
his not having prospered in his worldly affairs, had led to 
his having failed in his usual communications to the English- 
man for — as I now remember the period — some two or 
three years. But his prospects were brighter, and his wife, 
who had been very ill, had recovered, and his fever had left 
him, and he had bought a little vineyard, and would I carry 
to his benefactor the first of its wine ? Ay, that I would (I 
told him with enthusiasm), and not a drop of it should be 
spilled or lost ! 

He had cautiously closed the door before speaking of him- 
self, and had talked with such excess of emotion, and in a 
provincial Italian so difficult to understand, that I had more 
than once been obliged to stop him, and beg him to have 
compassion on me and be slower and calmer. By degrees 
he became so, and tranc[uilly walked back with me to the 
hotel. There I sat down before I went to bed and wrote a 
faithful account of him to the Englishman : which I con- 
cluded by saying that I would bring the wine home, against 
any difficulties, every drop. 



CARLAVERO'S BOTTLE. 223 

Early next morning, when I came out at tlie hotel door to 
pursue my journey, I found my friend waiting with one of 
those immense bottles in which the Italian peasants store 
their wine, — a bottle holding some half-dozen gallons, — 
bound round with basket-work for greater safety on the jour- 
ney. I see him now, in the bright sunlight, tears of grati- 
tude in his . eyes, proudly inviting my attention to this 
corpulent bottle. (At the street comer hard by, two high- 
flavored, able-bodied monks, — pretending to talk together, 
but keeping their four evil eyes upon us.) 

How the bottle had been got there did not appear ; but 
the difficulty of getting it into the ramshackle vetturino car- 
riage in which I was departing was so great, and it took up 
so much room when it was got in, that I elected to sit out- 
side. The last I saw of Giovanni Carlavero was his running 
through the town by the side of the jingling wheels, clasping 
my hand as I stretched it down from the box, charging me 
with a thousand last loving and dutiful messages to his dear 
patron, and finally looking iri at the bottle as it reposed 
inside, with an admiration of its honorable way of travelling 
that was beyond measure delightful. 

And now, what disquiet of mind this dearly-beloved and 
highly-treasured Bottle began to cost me no man knows. 
It was my precious charge through a long tour, and for hun- 
dreds of miles I never had it off my mind by day or by 
night. Over bad roads, — and they were many, — I clung 
to it with affectionate desperation. Up mountains, I looked 
in at it and saw it helplessly tilting over on its back, with 
terror. At innumerable inn doors, when the weather was 
bad, I was obliged to be put into my vehicle before the Bot- 
tle could be got in, and was obliged to have the Bottle lifted 
out before human aid could come near me. The Imp of the 
same name, except that his associations were all evil and 
these associations were all good, would have been a less 
troublesome travelling-companion. I might have served 



224 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Mr. Cruikshank as a subject for a new illustration of the 
miseries of the Bottle. The National Temperance Society 
might have made a powerful Tract of me. 

The suspicions that attached to this innocent Bottle great- 
ly aggravated my difficulties. It was like the apple-pie in 
the child's book. Parma pouted at it, Modena mocked it, 
Tuscany tackled it, Naples nibbled it, Rome refused it, Aus- 
tria accused it, Soldiers suspected it, Jesuits jobbed it. I 
composed a neat oration, developing my inoffensive inten- 
tions in connection with this Bottle, and delivered it in an 
infinity of guard-houses, at a multitude of toAvn-gates, and 
on every drawbridge, angle, and rampart of a complete sys- 
tem of fortifications. Fifty times a day I got down to ha- 
rangue an infuriated soldiery about the Bottle. Through the 
filthy degradation of the abject and vile Roman states I had 
as much difficulty in working my way with the Bottle, as if 
it had bottled up a complete system of heretical theology. In 
the Neapolitan country, where everybody was a spy, a sol- 
dier, a priest, or a lazzarone, the shameless beggars of all 
four denominations incessantly pounced on the Bottle, and 
made it a pretext for extorting money from me. Quires — 
quires do I say ? — reams of forms illegibly printed on whity- 
brown paper were filled up about the Bottle, and it was the 
subject of more stamping and sanding than I had ever seen 
before. In consequence of which haze of sand, perhaps, it 
was always irregular, and always latent with dismal penal- 
ties of going back, or not going forward, which were only to 
be abated by the silver crossing of a base hand, poked shirt- 
less out of a ragged uniform sleeve. Under all discourage- 
ments, however, I stuck to my Bottle, and held firm to my 
resolution that every drop of its contents should reach the 
Bottle's destination. 

The latter refinement cost me a separate heap of troubles 
on its ovni separate account. What corkscrews did I see 
the military power bring out agaiast that Bottle : what gim- 



CARLAVERO'S BOTTLE. 225 

lets, spikes, divining-rods, gauges, and unknown tests and 
instruments ! At some places they persisted in declaring 
that the wine must not be passed, without being opened and 
tasted ; I, pleading to the contrary, used then to argue the 
question seated on the Bottle, lest they should open it in 
spite of me. In the southern parts of Italy, more violent 
shrieking, face-making, and gesticulating, greater vehemence 
of speech and countenance and action, went on about that 
Bottle than would attend fifty murders in a northern lati- 
tude. It raised important functionaries out of their beds in 
the dead of night. I have known half a dozen military lan- 
terns to disperse themselves at all points of a great sleeping 
piazza, each lantern summoning some official creature to get 
up, put on his cocked hat instantly, and come and stop the 
Bottle. It was characteristic, that, while this innocent Bottle 
had such immense difficulty in getting from little town to 
town, Signor Mazzini and the fieiy cross were traversing 
Italy from end to end. 

Still I stuck to my Bottle, like any fine old English gen- 
tleman all of the olden time. The more the Bottle was in- 
terfered with, the stancher I became (if possible) in my 
first determination that my countryman should have it deliv- 
ered to him intact, as the man whom he had so nobly restored 
to life and liberty had delivered it to me. If ever I have 
been obstinate in my days, — and I may have been, say, 
once or twice, — I was obstinate about the Bottle. But I 
made it a rule always to keep a pocketful of small coin at 
its service, and never to be out of temper in its cause. 
Thus I and the Bottle made our way. Once we had a 
break-down ; rather a bad break-down, on a steep high place 
with the sea below us, on a tempestuous evening when it 
blew great guns. We were driving four wild horses abreast, 
Southern fashion, and there was some little difficulty in stop- 
ping them. I was outside, and not thrown off; but no words 
can describe my feelings when I saw the Bottle — travelling 
15 



226 CHAELES DICKENS. 

inside, as usual — burst the door open, and roll obesely out 
into the road. A blessed Bottle with a charmed existence, 
lie took no hurt, and we repaired damage, and went on 
triumphant. v 

A thousand representations were made to me that the 
Bottle must be left at this place, or that, and called for 
again. I never yielded to one of them, and never parted 
from the Bottle, on any pretence, consideration, threat, or 
entreaty. I had no faith in any official receipt for the Bot- 
tle, and nothing would induce me to accept one. These 
unmanageable politics at last brought me and the Bottle, 
still triumphant, to Genoa. There I took a tender and 
reluctant leave of him for a few weeks, and consigned him 
to a trusty English captain, to be conveyed to the port of 
London by sea. 

While the Bottle was on his voyage to England, I read 
the Shipping Intelligence, as anxiously as if I had been an 
underwriter. There was some stormy weather after I my- 
self had got to England by way of Switzerland and France, 
and my mind greatly misgave me that the Bottle might be 
wrecked. At last, to my great joy, I received notice of his 
safe arrival, and immediately went down to Saint Kath- 
arine's Docks, and found him in a state of honorable captiv- 
ity in the custom-house. 

The wine was mere vinegar when I set it down before the 
generous Englishman, — probably it had been something 
like vinegar when I took it up from Giovanni Carlavero, — 
but not a drop of it was spilled or gone. And the English- 
man told me, with much emotion in his face and voice, that 
he had never tasted wine that seemed to him so, sweet and 
sound. And long afterward, the Bottle graced his table. 
And the last time I saw him in this world that misses him, 
he took me aside in a crowd, to say, with his amiable smile : 
" We were talking of you only to-day at dinner, and I 
wished you had been there, for I had some claret up in Car- 
lavero's Bottle." 




G.Tijcimioiicl del 



EngcamsdlyH'W Smitti 



WHEN I AWAKE, I AM STILL WITH THEE. 

By MRS. H. B. STOWE. 

STILL, still with thee, when purple morning breaketh, 
When the bird waketh and the shadows flee ; 
Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight, 
Dawns the sweet consciousness, lam with thee! 

Alone with thee, amid the mystic shadows, 

The solemn hush of nature newly bom ; 
Alone with thee in breathless adoration. 

In the calm dew and freshness of the morn. 

As in the dawning o'er the waveless ocean 
The image of the morning star doth rest, 

So in this stillness thou beholdest only 
Thine image in the waters of my breast. 

Still, still with thee ! as to each new-bom morning 
A fresh and solemn splendor still is given. 

So doth this blessed consciousness, awaking, 

Breathe, each day, nearness unto thee and heaven. 

"When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber. 
Its closing eye looks up to thee in prayer, 

Sweet the repose beneath thy wings o'ershading. 
But sweeter stiU to wake and find thee there. 

So shall it be at last, in that bright morning 
When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee ; 

O, in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning, 
Shall rise the glorious thought, I am with thee ! 



LAUGHTER. 



By JULIUS CHARLES HARE. 

I HAVE seen faces which, so long as you let them lie in 
their sleepy torpor, unshaken and unstirred, have a 
creamy softness and smoothness, and might beguile you into 
suspecting their owners of being gentle : but, if they catch 
the sound of a laugh, it acts on them like thunder, and they 
also turn sour. Nay, strange as it may seem, there have 
been such incarnate paradoxes as would rather see their 
fellow-creatures cry than smile. 

But is not this in exact accordance with the spirit which 
pronounces a blessing on the weeper, and a woe on the 
laugher ? 

Not in the persons I have in view. That blessing and 
woe are pronounced in the knowledge how apt the course 
of this world is to run counter to the kingdom of God. 
They who weep are declared to be blessed, not because they 
weep, but because they shall laugh : and the woe threatened 
to the laughers is in like manner, that they shall mourn and 
weep. Therefore they who have this spirit in them will 
endeavor to forward the blessing, and to avert the woe. 
They will try to comfort the mourner, so as to lead him to 
rejoice : and they will warn the laugher, that he may be 
preserved from the mourning and weeping, and may ex- 
change his passing for lasting joy. But there are many 
who merely indulge in the antipathy, without opening their 




^ 



^>'<' 



\ 



o'^,/////j '-{0/^7 f/.J ._/>W^ 



LAUGHTER. 229 

hearts to the sjinpathy. Such is the spirit found in those 
who have cast off the bonds of the lower earthly affections, 
without having risen as yet into the freedom of heavenly 
love, — in those who have stopt short in the state of transi- 
tion between the two lives, like so many skeletons, stripped 
of their earthly, and not yet clothed with a heavenly body. 
It is the spirit of Stoicism, for instance, in philosophy, and 
of vulgar Calvinism, which in so many things answers to 
Stoicism, in religion. They who feel the harm they have 
received from worldly pleasures are prone at first to quar- 
rel with pleasure of every kind altogether : and it is one of 
the strange perversities of our self-will to entertain anger, 
instead of pity, toward those whom we fancy to judge or 
act less wisely than ourselves. This, however, is only while 
the scaffolding is still standing around the edifice of their 
Christian life, so that they cannot see clearly out of the 
windows, and their view is broken up into disjointed parts. 
When the scaffolding is removed, and they look abroad 
without hinderance, they are readier than any to delight in 
all the beauty and true pleasure around them. They feel 
that it is their blessed calling, not only to rejoice ahcays 
themselves, but likewise to rejoice with all who do rejoice in 
innocence of heart. They feel that this must be well- 
pleasing to Him who has filled his universe with ever- 
bubbling springs of gladness ; so that, whithersoever we turn 
our eyes, through earth and sky as well as sea, we behold 
the dvfjpLdfiov yeXaa-fia of Nature. On the other hand, it is 
the harshness of an irreligious temper, clothing itself in 
religious zeal, and not seldom exhibiting symptoms of 
mental disorganization, that looks scowlingly on every 
indication of happiness and mirth. 

Moreover, there is a large class of people who deem the 
business of life far too weighty and momentous to be made 
light of; who would leave merriment to children, and 
laughter to idiots ; and who hold that a joke would be as 



230 JULIUS CHARLES HARE. 

much out of place on their lips as on a gravestone or in a 
ledger. Wit and Wisdom being sisters, not only are they 
afraid of being indicted for bigamy were they to wed them 
both ; but they shudder at such a union as incestuous. So, 
to keep clear of temptation, and to preserve their faith 
where they have plighted it, they turn the younger out of 
doors ; and if they see or hear of anybody taking her in, 
they are positive he can know nothing of the elder. They 
would not be witty for the world. Now to escape being so 
is not very difficult for those whom Nature has so favored 
that Wit with them is always at zero, or below it. And as 
to their Wisdom, since they are careful never to overfeed 
her, she jogs leisurely along the turnpike-road, with lank 
and meagre carcass, displaying all her bones, and never 
getting out of her own dust. She feels no inclination to be 
frisky, but, if a coach or a wagon passes her, is glad, like 
her rider, to run behind a thing so big. Now all these 
people take grievous offence, if any one comes near them 
better mounted ; and they are in a tremor lest the neighing 
and snorting and prancing should be contagious. 

Surely, however, ridicule implies contempt: and so the 
feeling must be condemnable, subversive of gentleness, in- 
compatible with kindness? 

Not necessarily so, or universally : far from it. The word 
ridicule, it is true, has a narrow, one-sided meaning. From 
our proneness to mix up personal feelings with those which 
are more purely objective and intellectual, we have in great 
measure restricted the meaning of ridicule, which would 
properly extend over the whole region of the ridiculous, the 
laughable, where we may disport ourselves innocently with- 
out any evil emotion ; and we have narrowed it so that in 
common usage it mostly corresponds to derision, which does 
indeed involve personal and offensive feehngs. As the 
great business of Wisdom in her speculative office is to 
detect and reveal the hidden harmonies of things, those 



LAUGHTER. 231 

harmonies .which are the sources and the overflowing 
emanations of Law, the dealings of Wit on the other hand 
are with incongruities. And it is the perception of incon- 
gruity, flashing upon us, when unaccompanied, as Aristotle 
observes {Poet. c. v.), by pain, or by any predominant moral 
disgust, that provokes laughter, and excites the feeling of 
the ridiculous. But it no more follows that the perception 
of such an incongruity must breed or foster haughtiness or 
disdain, than that the perception of anything else that may be 
erroneous or wrong should do so. You might as well argue, 
that a man must be proud and scornful, because he sees 
that there is such a thing as sin, or such a thing as folly in 
the world. Yet, unless we blind our eyes, and gag our ears, 
and hoodwink our minds, we shall seldom pass through a day, 
without having some form of evil brought in one way or 
other before us. Besides, the perception of incongruity may 
exist, and may awaken laughter, without the slightest rep- 
robation of the object laughed at. "VYe laugh at a pun, 
surely without a shade of contempt either for the words 
punned upon or for the punster : and if a very bad pun be 
the next best thing to a very good one, this is not from its 
flattering any feeling of superiority in us, but because the 
incongruity is broader and more glaring. Nor, when we 
laugh at a droll combination of imagery, do we feel any 
contempt, but often admiration, at the ingenuity shown in 
it, and an almost ajBTectionate thankfulness toward the per- 
son by whom we have been amused, such as is rarely 
excited by any other display of intellectual power ; as those 
who have ever enjoyed the delight of Professor Sedgwick's 
society will bear witness. 

It is true, an exclusive attention to the ridiculous side of 
things is hurtful to the character, and destructive of earnest- 
ness and gravity. But no less mischievous is it to fix our 
attention exclusively, or even mainly, on the vices and other 
follies of mankind. Such contemplations, unless counter- 



232 JULIUS CHARLES HARE. 

acted by wholesomer thoughts, harden or rot the heart, 
deaden the moral principle, and make us hopeless and 
reckless. The objects toward which we should turn our 
minds habitually, are those which are great and good and 
pure, the throne of Virtue, and she who sits upon it, the 
majesty of Truth, the beauty of Holiness. This is the 
spiritual sky through which we should strive to mount, 
" springing from crystal step to crystal step," and bathing 
our souls in its living, life-giving ether. These are the 
thoughts by which we should whet and polish our swords 
for the warfare against evil, that the vapors of the earth 
may not rust them. But in a warfare against evil, under one 
or other of its forms, we are all of us called to engage: 
and it is a childish dream to fancy that we can walk about 
among mankind without perpetual necessity of remarking 
that the world is full of many worse incongruities, beside 
those which make us laugh. 

Nor do I deny that a laugher may often be a scoffer and 
a scorner. Some jesters are fools of a worse breed than 
those who used to wear the cap. Sneering is commonly 
found along with a bitter, splenetic misanthropy : or it may 
be a man's mockery at his own hollow heart, venting itself 
in mockery at others. Cruelty will try to season, or to 
palliate its atrocities by derision. The hyena grins in its 
den ; most \tild beasts over their prey. But, though a 
certain kind of wit, like other intellectual gifts, may coexist 
with moral depravity, there has often been a playfulness in 
the best and greatest men, — in Phocion, in Socrates, in 
Luther, in Sir Thomas More, — which, as it were, adds a 
bloom to the severer graces of their character, shining forth 
with amaranthine brightness when storms assail them, and 
springing up in fresh blossoms under the axe of the exe- 
cutioner. How much is our affection for Hector increased 
by his tossing his boy in his arms, and lauglnng at his 
childish fears ! Smiles are the language of love : they 



LAUGHTER. 2SS 

betoken the complacency and delight of the heart in the 
object of its contemplation. Why are we to assume that 
there must needs be bitterness or contempt in them, when 
they enforce a truth, or reprove an error ? On the con- 
trary, some of those who have been richest in wit and 
humor, have been among the simplest and kindest-hearted 
of men. I will only instance Fuller, Bishop Earle, Lafon- 
taine, Matthes Claudius, Charles Lamb. " Le m^chant 
n'est jamais comique," is wisely remarked by De Maistre, 
when canvassing the pretensions of Voltaire {Soirees, I. 
273) ; and the converse is equally true : le comique, le vrai 
comique, n^est jamais mechant. A laugh, to be joyous, must 
flow from a joyous heart ; but without kindness there can be 
no true joy. And what a dull, plodding, tramping, clanking 
would the ordinary intercourse of society be, without wit to 
enliven and brighten it ! When two men meet, they seem 
to be kept at bay through the estranging effects of absence, 
until some sportive sally opens their hearts to each other. 
Nor does anything spread cheerfulness so rapidly over a 
whole party, or an assembly of people, however large. Rea- 
son expands the soul of the philosopher ; Imagination glorifies 
the poet, and breathes a breath of spring through the young 
and genial : but, if we take into account the numberless 
glances and gleams whereby Wit lightens our every-day hfe, 
I hardly know what power ministers so bountifully to the 
innocent pleasures of mankind. 

Surely too it cannot be requisite to a man's being in 
earnest, that he should wear a perpetual frown. Or is 
there less of sincerity in Nature during her gambols in 
spring, than during the stiffness and harshness of her wintry 
o-loom ? Does not the bird's blithe carollinoj come from the 
heart, quite as much as the quadruped's monotonous cry ? 
And is it then altogether impossible to take up one's abode 
with Truth, and to let all sweet homely feelings grow about 
it and cluster around it, and to smile upon it as on a kind 



234 JULIUS CHAELES HARE. 

father or mother, and to sport with it and hold light and 
merry talk with it as with a loved brother or sister, and to 
fondle it and play with it as with a child ? In this wise did 
Socrates and Plato commune with Truth ; in this wise Cer- 
vantes and Shakespeare. This playfulness of Truth is 
beautifully represented by Landor, in the Conversation 
between Marcus Cicero and his brother, in an allegory 
which has the voice and the spirit of Plato. On the other 
hand, the outcries of those who exclaim against every sound 
more lively than a bray or a bleat, as derogatory to Truth, 
are often prompted, not so much by their deep feeling of the 
dignity of the truth in question, as of the dignity of the per- 
son by whom that truth is asserted. It is our vanity, our 
self-conceit, that makes us so sore and irritable. To a 
grave argument we may reply gravely, and fancy that we 
have the best of it : but he who is too dull or too angry to 
smile cannot answer a smile except by fretting and fuming ? 
Olivia lets us into the secret of Malvolio's distaste for the 
Clown. 

For the full expansion of the intellect, moreover, to pre- 
serve it from that narrowness and partial warp which our 
proneness to give ourselves up to the sway of the moment 
is apt to produce, its various faculties, however opposite, 
should grow and be trained up side by side, should twine 
their arms together, and strengthen each other by love- 
wrestles. Thus will it be best fitted for discerning and 
acting upon the multiplicity of things which the world sets 
before it. Thus, too, will something like a balance and 
order be upheld, and our minds be preserved from that 
exaggeration on the one side, and depreciation on the 
other side, which are the sure results of exclusiveness. 
A poet, for instance, should have much of the philoso- 
pher in him ; not indeed thrusting itself forward at the 
surface, — this would only make a monster of his work, 
like the Siamese twins, neither one thing nor two, — but 



LAUGHTER. 235 

latent within ; the spindle should be out of sight ; but the 
web should be spun by the Fates. A philosopher, on the 
other hand, should have much of the poet in him. A his- 
torian cannot be great, without combining the elements of 
the two minds. A statesman ought to unite those of all the 
three. A great religious teacher, such as Socrates, Ber- 
nard, Luther, Schleiermacher, needs the statesman's prac- 
tical power of dealing with men and things, as well as the 
historian's insight into their growth and purpose : he needs 
the philosopher's ideas, impregnated and impersonated by 
the imagination of the poet. In like manner our graver 
faculties and thoughts are much chastened and bettered by 
a blending and interfusion of the ligliter, so that " the sable 
cloud " may " turn forth her silver lining on the night " : 
while our lighter thoughts require the graver to substantiate 
them and keep them from evaporating. Thus Socrates is 
said in Plato's Banquet to have maintained that a great 
tragic poet ought likewise to be a great comic poet: an 
observation the more remarkable, because the tendency of 
the Greek mind, as at once manifested in their Polytheism, 
and fostered by it, was to insulate all its ideas, and as it 
were to split up the intellectual world into a cluster of 
Cyclades ; whereas the appetite for union and fusion, often 
leading to confusion, is the characteristic of modern times. 
The combination, however, was realized in himself, and in 
his great pupil, and may perhaps have been so to a certain 
extent in JEschylus, if we may judge from the fame of his 
satiric dramas. At all events, the assertion, as has been 
remarked more than once, — for instance, by Coleridge 
{Remains, II. 12), — is a wonderful prophetical intuition, 
which has received its fulfilment in Shakespeare. No heai-t 
would have been strong enough to hold the woe of Lear and 
Othello, except that which had the unquenchable elasticity 
of Falstaff and the Midsummer Night's Dream. He, too, is 
an example that the perception of the ridiculous does not 



2SQ JULIUS CHARLES HARE. 

necessarily imply bitterness and scorn. Along with his 
intense humor, and his equally intense, piercing insight into 
the darkest, most fearful depths of human nature, there is 
still a spirit of universal kindness, as well as universal 
justice, pervading his works : and Ben Jonson has left us a 
precious memorial of him, where he calls him "My gentle 
Shakespeare." This one epithet sheds a beautiful light on 
his character: its truth is attested by his wisdom; wliich 
could never have been so perfect, unless it had been har- 
monized by the gentleness of the dove. A similar union 
of the graver and lighter powers is found in several of 
Shakespeare's contemporaries, and in many others among 
the greatest poets of the modern world : in Boccaccio, in 
Cervantes, in Chaucer, in Goethe, in Tieck : so was it in 
Walter Scott. 

But He who came to set us an example how we ought to 
walk never indulged in wit or ridicule, and thereby showed 
that such levities are not becoming in those who profess to 
follow him. 

I have heard this argument alleged, but could never feel 
its force. Jesus did indeed set us an example, which it 
behooves us to follow in all things : we cannot follow it too 
closely, too constantly. It is the spirit of his example, 
however, that we are to follow, not the letter. We are to 
endeavor that the principles of our actions may be the same 
which he manifested in his, but not to cleave servilely to 
the outward form. For as he did many things which we 
cannot do, — as he had a power and a wisdom which lie 
altogether beyond our reach, — so are there many things 
which beseem us in our human, earthly relations, but which 
it did not enter into his purpose to sanction by his express 
example. Else on the selfsame grounds it might be con- 
tended, that it does not befit a Christian to be a husband or 
a father, seeing that Jesus has set us no example of these 
two sacred relations. It might be contended, with equal 



LAUGHTER. 237 

justice, that there ought to be no statesmen, no soldiers, no 
lawyers, no merchants, — that no one should write a book, 
— that poetry, history, philosophy, science, ought all to be 
thrown overboard, and banished forever from the field of 
lawful human occupations. As rationally might it be ar- 
gued, that, because there are no trees or houses in the sky, 
it is therefore profane and sinful to plant trees and build 
houses on the earth. Jeremy Taylor, in his Exhortation to 
the Imitation of the Life of Christ, when speaking of the 
things which Christ did, but which are not " imitable by 
us," touches on this very point (Vol. H. p. Ixvii.). "We 
never read (he says) that Jesus laughed, and but once 
that he rejoiced in spirit : but the declensions of our 
natures cannot bear the weight of a perpetual grave de- 
portment, without the intervals of refreshment and free 
alacrity." 

In fact, the aim and end of all our Lord's teaching, — to 
draw men away from sin to the knowledge and love of God, 
was such that wit and ridicule, even had they been com- 
patible with the pure heavenliness of his spirit, could have 
found no place in it. For the dealings of Wit are with 
incongruities regarded intellectually, rather than morally, — 
with absurdities and follies, rather than with vices and sins : 
and when it attacks the latter, it tries chiefly to point out 
their absurdity and folly, the moral feeling being for the 
time kept half in abeyance. But though there is no recorded 
instance of our Lord's making use of any of the weapons of 
wit, — nor is it conceivable that he ever did so, — a severe, 
taunting irony is sanctioned by the example of the Hebrew 
Prophets, — as in Isaiah's sublime invective against idola- 
try, and in Elijah's controversy with the priests of Baal, — 
and by that of St. Paul, especially in the fourth chapter of 
the first Epistle to the Corinthians. Surely, too, one may" 
say with Milton, in his Animadversions on the Remonstrant^ 
that " this vein of laughing hath ofttimes a strong and sinewy 



238 JULIUS CHARLES HARE. 

force in teaching and confuting " ; and that, " if it be harm- 
ful to be angry, and withal to cast a lowering smile, when 
the properest object calls for both, it will be long enough ere 
any be able to say, why those two most rational faculties of 
human intellect, anger and laughter, were first seated in the 
breast of man." In like manner Schleiermacher, who was 
gifted with the keenest wit, and who was the greatest mas- 
ter of irony since Plato, deemed it justifiable and right to 
make use of these powers, as Pascal also did, in his polem- 
ical writings. Yet all who knew him well declare that the 
basis of his character, the key-note of his whole being, was 
love ; — and so, when I had the happiness of seeing him, I 
felt it to be ; — a love wliich delighted in pouring out the 
boundless riches of his spirit for the edifying of such as came 
near him, and strove with unweariable zeal to make them 
partakers of all that he had. Hereby was his heart kept 
fresh through the unceasing and often turbulent activity of 
his life, so that the subtilty of his understanding had no 
power to corrode it ; but when he died, he was still, as one 
of his friends said of him, ein funf-und-sechzigjdhriger 
Jungling. To complain of his wit and irony, as some do, is 
like complaining of a sword for being sharp. So long as 
error and evil passions lift up their heads in literature, the 
soldiers of Truth must go forth against them : and seldom 
will it be practicable to fulfil the task imposed upon Shy- 
lock, and cut out a noxious opinion, especially where there 
is an inflammable habit, without shedding a drop of blood. 
In fact, would it not be something like a mockery, when we 
deem it our duty to wage battle, were we to shrink from 
using the weapons which God has placed in our hands ? 
Only we must use them fairly, lawfully, for our cause^ not 
for display, still less in mangling or wantonly wounding our 
adversaries. 

After all, however, I allow that the feeling of the ridicu- 
lous can only belong to the imperfect conditions and rela- 



LAUGHTER. 239 

tions of humanity. Hence I have always felt a shock of 

pain, almost of disgust, at reading that passage in Paradise 

Lost, where, in reply to Adam's questions about the stars, 

Raphael says, 

The Great Architect 
Did wisely to conceal, and not divulge 
' His secrets, to be scanned by them who ought 
Rather admire; or, if they list to try 
Conjecture, He his fabric of the heavens 
Hath left to their disputes, perhaps to move 
iris laughter at their quaint opinions wide 
Hereafter. When they come to model heaven, 
And calculate the stars, how they will wield 
The mighty frame, how build, unbuild, contrive 
To save appearances, how gird the sphere 
With centric and eccentric scribbled o'er, 
Cycle and epicycle, orb in orb, — 
Already by thy reasoning this I guess. 

Milton might indeed appeal to certain passages in the Old 
Testament, such as Psalm ii. 4, Prov. i. 26: but the bold 
and terrible anthropopathy of those passages can nowise 
justify a Christian in attributing such a feeling to God; 
least of all as excited by a matter of purely speculative 
science, without any moral pravity. For in the sight of 
God the only folly is wickedness. The errors of his crea- 
tures, so far as they are merely errors of the understanding, 
are nothing else than the refraction of the light, from the 
atmosphere in Avhicli he has placed them. Even we can per- 
ceive and acknowledge how the aberrations of Science are 
necessary stages in her progress ; and an astronomer now-a- 
days would only show his own ignorance, and his incapacity 
of looking beyond what he sees around him, if he were to 
mock at the Ptolemaic system, or could not discern how in 
its main principles it was the indispensable prelude to the 
Copernican. While the battle is pending, we may attack 
an inveterate error with the missiles of ridicule, as well as 
in close fight, reason to reason ; but when the battle is won, 
we are bound to do justice to the truth which lay at its heart. 



240 JULIUS CHARLES HARE. 

and which was the source of its power. In either case it is 
a sort of blasphemy to attribute our puny feeHngs to Him, 
before whom the difference between the most ignorant man 
and the least ignorant is only that the latter has learned a 
few more letters in the alphabet of knowledge. Above all 
is it offensive to represent the Creator as purposely throw- 
ing an appearance of confusion over his works, that he 
may enjoy the amusement of laughing at the impotent at- 
tempts of his creatures to understand them. 



LINKS WITH HEAVEN. 



By ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. 



OUR God in Heaven, from that holy place, 
To each of us an Angel guide has given ; 
But Mothers of dead childi-en have more grace, — 
For they give Angels to theii- God and Heaven. 

How can a Mother's heart feel cold or weary, 
Knowing her dearer self safe, happy, warm ? 

How can she feel her road too dark or dreaiy, 

Who knows her treasure sheltered from the storm ? 

How can she sin ? Our hearts may be unheeding, 
Our God forgot, our holy Saints defied ; 

But can a mother hear her dead child pleading, 
And thrust those little angel hands aside ? 

Those little hands stretched down to draw her ever 
Nearer to God by mother love : — we all 

Are blind and weak, yet surely she can never, 
With such a stake in Heaven, fail or fall. 

She knows that when the mighty Angels raise 
Chorus in Heaven, one little silver tone 

Is hers forever, that one little praise. 
One little happy voice, is all her own. 
16 



242 ADELAIDE A. PKOGTER. 

We may not see her sacred crown of honor, 
But all the Angels flitting to and fro 

Pause smiling as they pass, — they look upon her 
As mother of an aiigel whom they know. 

One whom they left nestled at Mary's feet, — 

The children's place in Heaven, — who softly sings 

A little chant to please them, slow and sweet, 
Or smiling strokes their little folded wings ; 

Or gives them Her white lilies or Her beads 
To play with : — yet, in spite of flower or song, 

They often lift a wistful look that pleads 

And asks Her why their mother stays so long. 

Then our dear Queen makes answer she will call 
Her very soon : meanwhile they are beguiled 

To wait and listen while She tells them all 
A story of Her Jesus as a child. 

Ah, Saints in Heaven may pray with earnest will 
And pity for their weak and erring brothers : 

Yet there is prayer in Heaven more tender still, — 
The little Children pleading for their Mothers. 



WINTER ANIMALS IN THE WOODS. 



By henry D. THOREAU. 

FOR sounds in winter nights, and often in winter days, 
I heard the forlorn but melodious note of a hooting 
owl indefinitely far ; such a sound as the frozen earth would 
yield if struck with a suitable plectrum, the very lingua 
vernacula of Walden Wood, and quite familiar to me at 
last, though I never saw the bird while it was making it. 
I seldom opened my door in a winter evening without hear- 
ing it : Hoo hoo hoo, hoorer hoo^ sounded sonorously, and 
the first three syllables accented somewhat like how der do ; 
or sometimes Jioo hoo only. One night in the beginning of 
winter, before the pond froze over, about nine o'clock, I was 
startled by the loud honking of a goose, and, stepping to 
the door, heard the sound of their wings like a tempest in 
the woods as they flew low over my house. They passed 
over the pond toward Fair Haven, seemingly deterred from 
settling by my light, their commodore honking all the 
while with a regular beat. Suddenly an unmistakable cat- 
owl from very near me, with the most harsh and tremendous 
voice I ever heard from any inhabitant of the woods, re- 
sponded at regular intervals to the goose, as if determined 
to expose and disgrace this intruder from Hudson's Bay by 
exhibiting a greater compass and volume of voice in a 
native, and hoo-hoo him out of Concord horizon. What do 
you mean by alarming the citadel at this time of night con- 



244 HENRY D. THOREAU. 

secrated to me ? Do you think I am ever caught napping 
at such an hour, and that I have not got lungs and a larynx 
as well as yourself? Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, hoo-hoo ! It was 
one of the most thrilling discords I ever heard. And yet, 
if you had a discriminating ear, there were in it the ele- 
ments of a concord such as these plains never saw nor 
heard. 

I also heard the whooping of the ice in the pond, my 
great bedfellow in that part of Concord, as if it were rest- 
less in its bed and would fain turn over, were troubled with 
flatulency and bad dreams ; or I was waked by the cracking 
of the ground by the frost, as if some one had driven a 
team against my door, and in the morning would find a 
crack in the earth a quarter of a mile long and a third of 
an inch wide. 

Sometimes I heard the foxes as they ranged over the 
snow-crust, in moonlight nights, in search of a partridge or 
other game, barking raggedly and demoniacally, like forest 
dogs, as if laboring with some anxiety, or seeking expres- 
sion, struggling for light and to be dogs outright and run 
freely in the streets ; for if we take the ages into our 
account, may there not be a civilization going on among 
brutes as well as men ? They seemed to me to be rudi- 
mental, burrowing men, still standing on their defence, 
awaiting their transformation. Sometimes one came near 
to my window, attracted by my light, barked a vulpine 
curse at me, and then retreated. 

Usually the red squirrel (Sciurus Hudsonius) waked me 
in the dawn, coursing over the roof and up and down the 
sides of the house, as if sent out of the woods for this pur- 
pose. In the course of the winter I threw out half a 
bushel of ears of sweet-corn, which had not got ripe, on to 
the snow-crust by my door, and was amused by watching 
the motions of the various animals which M''ere baited by it. 
In the twilight and the night the rabbits came regularly and 



WINTER ANIMALS IN THE WOODS. 245 

made a hearty meal. All day long the red squirrels came 
and went, and afforded me much entertainment by their 
manoeuvres. One would approach at first warily through 
the shrub-oaks, running over the snow-crust by fits and 
starts, like a leaf blown by the wind, now a few paces this 
way, with wonderful speed and waste of energy, making 
inconceivable haste with his " trotters," as if it were for a 
wager, and now as many paces that way, but never getting 
on more than half a rod at a time ; and then suddenly 
pausing with a ludicrous expression and a gratuitous somer- 
set, as if all the eyes in the universe were fixed on him, — 
for all the motions of a squirrel, even in the most solitary 
recesses of the forest, imply spectators as much as those of 
a dancing-girl, — wasting more time in delay and circum- 
spection than would have sufficed to walk the whole dis- 
tance, — I never saw one walk, — and then suddenly, 
before you could say Jack Robinson, he would be in the top 
of a yoijng pitch-pine, winding up liis clock and chiding all 
imaginary spectators, soliloquizing and talking to all the 
universe at the same time, — for no reason that I could ever 
detect, or he himself was aware of, I suspect. At length 
he would reach the corn, and selecting a suitable ear, brisk 
about in the same uncertain trigonometrical way to the top- 
most stick of my wood-pile, before my window, where he 
looked me in the face, and there sit for hours, supplying 
himself with a new ear from time to time, nibbling at first 
voraciously and throwing the half-naked cobs about ; till at 
length he grew more dainty still, and played with his food, 
tasting only the inside of the kernel, and the ear, which 
was held balanced over the stick by one paw, slipped from 
his careless grasp and fell to the ground, when he would look 
over at it with a ludicrous expression of uncertainty, as if 
suspecting that it had life, with a mind not made up whether 
to get it again, or a new one, or be off; now thinking of 
corn, then listening to hear what was in the wind. So the 



246 HENRY D. THOREAU. • 

little impudent fellow would waste many an ear in a fore- 
noon; till at last, seizing some longer and plumper one, 
considerably bigger than himself, and skilfully balancing it, 
he would set out with it to the woods, like a tiger with 
a buffalo, by the same zigzag course and frequent pauses, 
scratching along with it as if it were too heavy for him and 
falling all the while, making its fall a diagonal between a 
perpendicular and horizontal, being determined to put it 
through at any rate ; — a singularly frivolous and whimsical 
fellow ; — and so he would get off with it to where he lived, 
perhaps carry it to the top of a pine-tree forty or fifty rods 
distant, and I would afterwards find the cobs strewn about 
the woods in various directions. 

At length the jays arrive, whose discordant screams were 
heard long before, as they were warily making their 
approach an eighth of a mile off, and in a stealthy and 
sneaking manner they flit from tree to tree, nearer and 
nearer, and pick up the kernels which the squirrels have 
dropped. Then, sitting on a pitch-pine bough, they attempt 
to swallow in their haste a kernel which is too big for their 
throats and chokes them; and after great labor they dis- 
gorge it, and spend an hour in the endeavor to crack it by 
repeated blow^s with their bills. They w^ere manifestly 
thieves, and I had not much respect for them; but the 
squirrels, though at first shy, w^ent to work as if they were 
taking what was their own. 

Meanwhile, also, came the chickadees in flocks, which, 
picking up the crumbs the squirrels had dropped, flew to the 
nearest twig, and, placing them under their claws, hammered 
away at them with their little bills, as if it were an insect 
in' the bark, till they were sufficiently reduced for their 
slender throats. A little flock of these titmice came daily 
to pick a dinner out of my wood-pile, or the crumbs at my 
door, with faint, flitting, lisping notes, like the tinkling of 
icicles in the grass, or else with sprightly day day day, or 



WINTER ANIMALS IN THE WOODS. 247 

more rarely, in spring-like days, a wiry summery phe-he 
from the wood-side. They were so familiar that at length 
one alighted on an armful of wood which I was carrying in, 
and pecked at the sticks without fear. I once had a spar- 
row alight upon my shoulder for a moment while I was 
hoeing in a village garden, and I felt that I was more dis- 
tinguished by that circumstance than I should have been by 
any epaulet I could have worn. The squirrels also grew at 
last to be quite familiar, and occasionally stepped upon my 
shoe, when that was the nearest way. 

When the ground was not yet quite covered, and again 
near the end of winter, when the snow was melted on my 
south hillside and about my wood-pile, the partridges came 
out of the woods mornin<2; and evenino; to feed there. 
Whichever side you walk in the woods the partridge bursts 
away on whirring wings, jarring the snow from the dry 
leaves and twigs on high, which comes sifting down in the 
sunbeams like golden dust ; for this brave bird is not to be 
scared by winter. It is frequently covered up by drifts, 
and, it is said, " sometimes plunges from on ^ving into the 
soft snow, where it remains concealed for a day or two." I 
used to start them in the open land also, wliere they had 
come out of the woods at sunset to " bud " the wild apple- 
trees. They will come regularly every evening to particu- 
lar trees, where the cunning sjDortsman lies in wait for them, 
and the distant orchards next the woods suffer thus not a 
little. I am glad that the partridge gets fed, at any rate. 
It is Nature's own bird which lives on buds and diet-drink. 

In dark winter mornings, or in short winter afternoons, 
I sometimes heard a pack of hounds threading all the woods 
with hounding cry and yelp, unable to resist the instinct of 
the chase, and the note of the hunting-horn at intervals, 
proving that man was in the rear. The woods ring again, 
and yet no fox bursts forth on to the open level of the pond, 
nor following pack pursuing their Acta3on. And perhaps at 



248 HENRY D. THOREAU. 

evening I see the hunters returning with a single brush 
trailing from their sleigh for a trophy, seeking their inn. 
They tell me that if the fox would remain in the bosom of 
the frozen earth he would be safe, or if he would run in a 
Straight line away no fox-hound could overtake him ; but, 
having left his pursuers far behind, he stops to rest and 
listen till they come up, and when he runs he circles round 
to his old haunts, where the hunters await him. Sometimes, 
however, he will run upon a wall many rods, and then leap 
off far to one side, and he appears to know that water will 
not retain his scent. A hunter told me that he once saw a 
fox pursued by hounds burst out on to Walden when the 
ice was covered with shallow puddles, run part way across, 
and then return to the same shore. Erelong the hounds 
arrived, but here they lost the scent. Sometimes a pack 
hunting by themselves would pass my door, and circle round 
my house, and yelp and hound without regarding me, as if 
afihcted by a species of madness, so that nothing could 
divert them from the pursuit. Thus they circle until they 
fell upon the recent trail of a fox, for a wise hound will for- 
sake everything else for this. One day a man came to my 
hut from ^Lexington to inquire after his hound, that made a 
large track, and had been hunting for a week by himself. 
But I fear that he was not the wiser for all I told him, for 
every time I attempted to answer his questions he inter- 
rupted me by asking, " What do you do here ? " He had 
lost a dog, but found a man. 

One old hunter who has a dry tongue, who used to come 
to bathe in Walden once every year when the water was 
warmest, and at such times looked in upon me, told me, 
that many years ago he took his gun one afternoon and 
went out for a cruise in Walden Wood ; and as he walked 
the Wayland road he heard the cry of hounds approaching, 
and erelong a fox leaped the wall into the road, and as quick 
as thought leaped the other wall out of the road, and his 



WINTER ANIMALS IN THE WOODS. 249 

swift bullet had not touched him. Some way behind came 
an old hound and her three pups in full pursuit, hunting 
on their own account, and disappeared again in the woods. 
Late in the afternoon, as he was resting in the thick woods 
south of Walden, he heard the voice of the hounds far over 
toward Fair Haven still pursuing the fox; and on they 
came, their hounding cry which made all the woods ring 
sounding nearer and nearer, now from Well-Meadow, now 
from the Baker Farm. For a long time he stood still and 
listened to their music, so sweet to a hunter's ear, when 
suddenly the fox appeared, threading the solemn aisles with 
an easy coursing pace, whose sound was concealed by a 
sympathetic rustle of the leaves, swift and still, keeping the 
ground, leaving his pursuers far behind ; and, leaping upon 
a rock amid the woods, he sat erect and listening, with his 
back to the hunter. For a moment compassion restrained 
the latter's arm ; but that was a short-lived mood, and as 
quick as thought can follow thought his piece was levelled, 
and whang ! — the fox, rolling over the rock, lay dead on 
the ground. The hunter still kept his place and listened to 
the hounds. Still on they came, and now the near woods 
resounded through all their aisles with their demoniac cry. 
At length the old hound burst into view, with muzzle to th^; 
ground, and snapping the air as if possessed, and ran di- 
rectly to the rock ; but spying the dead fox, she suddenly 
ceased her hounding, as if struck dumb with amazement, 
and walked round and round him in silence ; and one by 
one her pups arrived, and, like their mother, were sobered 
into silence by the mystery. Then the hunter came for- 
ward and stood in their midst, and the mystery was solved. 
They waited in silence while he skinned the fox, then 
followed the brush awhile, and at length turned off into the 
woods again. That evening a Weston Squire came to the 
Concord hunter's cottage to inquire for his hounds, and told 
how for a week they had been hunting on their own account 



250 HENRY D. THOREAU. 

from Weston woods. The Concord hunter told him what 
he knew, and offered him the skin ; but the other declined it, 
and departed. He did not find his hounds that night, but 
the next day learned that they had crossed the river and 
put up at a farm-house for the night, whence, having been 
weU fed, they took their departure early in the morning. 

The hunter who told me this could remember one Sam 
Nutting, who used to hunt bears on Fair Haven Ledges, 
and exchange their skins for rum in Concord village ; who 
told him, even, that he had seen a moose there. Nutting 
had a famous fox-hound named Burgoyne, — he pronounced 
it Bugine, — which my informant used to borrow. In the 
" Wast Book " of an old trader of this town, who was also 
a captain, town-clerk, and representative, I find the following 
entry. Jan. 18th, 1742-3, "John Melven Cr. by 1 Grey 
Fox — 2 — 3 " ; they are not now found here ; and in 
his ledger, Feb. 7th, 1743, Hezekiah Stratton has credit 
" by ^ a Catt skin — 1 — 4 1- " ; of course, a wild-cat, for 
Stratton was a sergeant in the old French war, and would 
not have got credit for hunting less noble game. Credit is 
given for deer-skins also, and they were daily sold. One 
man still preserves the horns of the last deer that was killed 
in this vicinity, and another has told me the particulars of 
the hunt, in which his uncle was engaged. The hunters 
were formerly a numerous and merry crew here. I remem- 
ber well one gaunt Nimrod who would catch up a leaf by 
the roadside and play a strain on it wilder and more 
melodious, if my memory serves me, than any hunting- 
horn. 

At midnight, when there was a moon, I sometimes met 
with hounds in ray path prowling about the woods, which 
would skulk out of my way, as if afraid, and stand silent 
amid the bushes till I had passed. 

Squirrels and wild mice disputed for my store of nuts. 
There were scores of pitch-pines around my house, from 



WINTER ANIMALS IN THE WOODS. 251 

one to four inches in diameter, whicli had been gnawed by 
mice the previous winter, — a Norwegian winter for them, 
for the snow lay long and deep, and they were obliged to 
mix a large proportion of pine bark with their other diet. 
These trees were alive and apparently flourishing at mid- 
summer, and many of them had grown a foot, though com- 
pletely girdled ; but after another winter such were without 
exception dead. It is remarkable that a single mouse should 
thus be allowed a whole pine-tree for its dinner, gna-\ving 
round instead of up and down it ; but perhaps it is neces- 
sary in order to thin these trees, which are wont to grow 
up densely. 

The hares {Lepus Americanus) were very familiar. 
One had her form under my house all winter, separated 
from me only by the flooring, and she startled me each 
morning by her hasty departure when I began to stir, — 
thump, thump, thump, striking her head against the floor- 
timbers in her hurry. They used to come round my door 
at dusk to nibble the potato-parings which I had thro^vn out, 
and were so nearly the color of the ground that they could 
hardly be distinguished when still. Sometimes in the twi- 
light I alternately lost and recovered sight of one sitting 
motionless under my window. When I opened my door in 
the evening, olF they would go with a squeak and a bounce. 
Near at hand they only excited my pity. One evening one 
sat by my door, two paces from me, at first trembling with 
fear, yet unwilling to move ; a poor wee thing, lean and 
bony, with ragged ears and sharp nose, scant tail and slen- 
der paws. It looked as if Nature no longer contained the 
breed of nobler bloods, but stood on her last toes. Its 
large eyes appeared young and unhealthy, almost dropsical. 
I took a step, and lo ! away it scud with an elastic spring 
over the snow-crust, straightening its body and its limbs 
into graceful length, and soon put the forest between me and 
itself, — the wild, free venison asserting its vigor and the 



252 HENRY D. THOREAU. 

dignity of Nature. Not without reason was its slenderness. 
Such, then, was its nature. {Lepus, levipes, light-foot, some 
think.) 

What is a country without rabbits and partridges ? They 
are among the most simple and indigenous animal products ; 
ancient and venerable families known to antiquity as to 
modern times ; of the very hue and substance of Nature, 
nearest allied to leaves and to the ground, — and to one 
another ; it is either winged or it is legged. It is hardly as 
if you had seen a wild creature when a rabbit or a partridge 
bursts away, only a natural one, as much to be expected as 
rustling leaves. The partridge and the rabbit are still sure 
to thrive, like true natives of the soil, whatever revolutions 
occur. If the forest is cut off, the sprouts and bushes 
which spring up afford them concealment, and they become 
more numerous than ever. That must be a poor country 
indeed that does not support a hare. Our woods teem with 
them both, and around every swamp may be seen the 
partridge or rabbit walk, beset with twiggy fences and 
horse-hair snares, which some cow-boy tends. 



HOME, WOUNDED 



By SYDNEY DOBELL. 



WHEEL me into the sunshine, 
Wheel me into the shadow, 
There must be leaves on the woodbine, 
Is the king-cup crowned in the meadow ? 



Wheel me down to the meadow, 

Down to the little river, 

In sun or in shadow 

I shall not dazzle or shiver, 

I shall be happy anywhere. 

Every breath of the morning air 

Makes me throb and quiver. 

Stay wherever you will, 

By the mount or under the hill, 

Or down by tlie little river : 

Stay as long as you please. 

Give me only a bud from the trees. 

Or a blade of grass in morning dew. 

Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue, 

I could look on it forever. 

Wheel, wheel through the sunshme. 
Wheel, wheel through the sliadoAv ; 



254 SYDNEY DOBELL. 

There must be odors round the pine, 
There must be balm of breathing kine, 
Somewhere down in the meadow. 
Must I choose ? Then anchor me there 
Beyond the beckoning poplars, where 
The larch is snooding her flowery hair 
With wreaths of morning shadow. 

Among the thicket hazels of the brake 

Perchance some nightingale doth shake 

His feathers, and the air is full of song ; 

In those old days when I was young and strong, 

He used to sing on yonder garden tree. 

Beside the nursery. 

Ah, I remember how I loved to wake, 

And find him singing on the self-same bough 

(I know it even now) 

Where, since the flit of bat, 

In ceaseless voice he sat, ^ 

Trying the spring night over, like a tune, 

Beneath the vernal moon ; 

And while I listed long, , 

Day rose, and still he sang. 

And all his stanchless song. 

As something falling unaware. 

Fell out of the tall trees he sang among. 

Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang, — 

Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair. 

Is it too early ? I hope not 
But wheel me to the ancient oak, 
On this side of the meadow ; 
Let me hear the raven's croak 
Loosened to an amorous note 
In the hollow shadow. 



HOME, WOUNDED. 255 

Let me see the winter snake 
Thawing all his frozen rings 
On the bank where the wren sings. 
Let me hear the little bell, 
Where the red-wing, topmast high, 
Looks toward the northern sky, 
And jangles his farewell. 
Let us rest by the ancient oak. 
And see his net of shadow. 
His net of barren shadow, 
Like those wrestlers' nets of old. 
Hold the winter dead and cold, 
Hoary winter, white and cold, 
"While all is green in the meadow. 

And when you 've rested, brother mine, 

Take me over the meadow ; 

Take me along the level crown 

Of the bare and silent down, 

And stop by the ruined tower. 

On its green scarp, by and by, 

I shall smell tlie flowering thyme, 

On its wall the wall-flower. 

Li the tower there used to be 

A solitary tree. 

Take me there, for the dear sake 

Of those old days wherein I loved to lie 

And pull the melilote, 

And look across the valley to the sky. 

And hear the joy that filled the warm wide hour 

Bubble from the thrush's throat, 

As into a shining mere 

Rills some rillet trebling clear, 

And speaks the silent silver of the lake. 

There 'mid cloistering tree-roots, year by year, 



256 SYDNEY DOBELL. 

The hen-thrusli sat, and he, her lief and dear, 
Among the boughs did make 
A ceaseless music of her married time. 
And all the ancient stones grew sweet to hear, 
And answered him in the unspoken rhyme 
Of gracious forms most musical 
That tremble on the wall 
And trim its age with airy fantasies 
That flicker in the sun, and hardly seem 
As if to be beheld were all. 
And only to our eyes 
They rise and fall. 
And fall and rise, 

Sink down like silence, or a-sudden stream 
As wind-blown on the wind as streams a wedding-chime. 

But you are wheeling me while I dream, 
And we Ve almost reached the meadow ! 
You may wheel me fast through the sunshine, 
You may wheel me fast through the shadow. 
But wheel me slowly, brother mine. 
Through the green of the sappy meadow ; 
For the sun, these days have been so fine, 
Must have touched it over with celandine. 
And the southern hawthorn, I divine, 
Sheds a muffled shadow. 

There blows 

The first primrose. 

Under the bare bank roses : 

There is but one. 

And the bank is brown, 

But soon the children will come down. 

The ringing children come singing down, 

To pick their Easter posies. 



HOME, WOUNDED. 257 

And thej '11 spy it out, my beautiful, 
Among the bare brier-roses ; 
And when I sit here again alone, 
The bare brown bank will be blind and dull, 
Alas for Easter posies ! 
But when the din is over and gone. 
Like an eye that opens after pain, 
I shall see my pale flower shining again ; 
Like a fair star after a gust of rain 
I shall see my pale flower shining again ; 
Like a glow-worm after the rolling wain 
Hath shaken darkness down the lane 
I shall see my pale flower shining again ; 
And it will blow here for two months more. 
And it will blow here again next year. 
And the year past that, and the year beyond ; 
And through all the years till my years are o'er 
I shall always find it here. 
Shining across from the bank above. 
Shining up from the pond below. 
Ere a water-fly wimple the silent pond. 
Or the first green weed appear. 
And I shall sit here under the tree, 
And as each slow bud uncloses, 
I shall see it brighten and brighten to me, 
From among the leafing brier-roses. 
The leaning leafing roses, 
As at eve the leafing shadows grow, 
And the star of light and love 
Draweth near o'er her airy glades, 
Draweth near through her heavenly shades, 
As a maid through a myrtle grove. 
And the flowers will multiply, 
As the stars come blossoming over the sky, 
The bank will blossom, the waters blow, 
17 



258 SYDNEY DOBELL. 

Till the singing children hitherward hie 

To gather May-day posies ; 

And the bank will be bare wherever they go, 

As dawn, the primrose-girl, goes by. 

And alas for heaven's primroses ! 

Blare the trumpet, and boom the gun, 
But, oh ! to sit here thus in the sun. 
To sit here feeling my work is done, 
While the sands of life so golden run, 
And I watch the children's posies. 
And my idle heart is whispering, 
" Bring whatever the years may bring, 
The flowers will blossom, the birds will sing. 
And there '11 always be primroses." 

Looking before me here in the sun, 
I see the Aprils one after one, 
Primrosed Aprils one by one, 
Primrosed Aprils on and on, 
Till the floating prospect closes 
In golden glimmers that rise and rise. 
And perhaps are gleams of Paradise, 
And perhaps — too far for mortal eyes — 
New years of fresh primroses, 
Years of earth's primroses. 
Springs to be, and springs for me 
Of distant, dim primroses. 

My soul lies out like a basking hound, 

A hound that dreams and dozes ; 

Along my life my length I lay, 

I fill to-morrow and yesterday, 

I am warm with the suns that have long since set, 

I am warm with the summers- that are not yet. 



HOME, WOUNDED. 259 

And like one who dreams and dozes 

Softly afloat on a sunny sea, 

Two worlds are whispering over me, 

And there blows a wind of roses 

From the backward shore to the shore before, 

From the shore before to the backward shore. 

And like two clouds that meet and pour, 

Each through each, till core in core 

A single self reposes, 

The nevermore with the evermore 

Above me mingles and closes ; 

As my soul lies out like the basking hound. 

And wherever it lies seems happy ground. 

And when, awakened by some sweet sound, 

A dreamy eye uncloses, 

I see a blooming world around 

And I lie amid primroses, — 

Years of sweet primroses. 

Springs of fresh primroses, 

Springs to be, and springs for me 

Of distant, dim primroses. 

O to lie a-dream, a-dream. 

To feel I may dream and to know you deem 

My work is done forever. 

And the palpitating fever 

That gains and loses, loses and gains, 
And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a thousand pains 

Cooled at once by that blood-let 

Upon the paparet ; 
And all the tedious tasked toil of the difficult long endeavor 

Solved and quit by no more fine 

Than these limbs of mine. 

Spanned and measured once for all 

By that right hand I lost. 



260 SYDNEY DOBELL. 

Bought up at so light a cost 

As one bloody fall 

On a soldier's bed, 

And thi'ee days on the ruined wall 

Among the thirstless dead. 

O to think my name is crost 

From duty's muster-roll ; 

That I may slumber though the clarion call, 

And live the joy of an embodied soul 

Free as a liberated ghost. 

O to feel a life of deed 

Was emptied out to feed 

That fire of pain that burned so brief a while, — 

That fire from which I come, as the dead come 

Forth from the irreparable tomb. 

Or as a martyr on his funeral pile 

Heaps up the burdens other men do bear 

Through years of segregated care, 

And takes the total load 

Upon his shoulders broad. 

And steps from earth to God. 

O to think, through good or ill. 

Whatever I am you 11 love me still ; 

O to think, though dull I be. 

You that are so grand and free. 

You that are so bright and gay. 

Will pause to hear me when I will. 

As though my head were gray ; 

And though there 's little I can say. 

Each will look kind with honor while he hears. 

And to your loving ears 

My thoughts will halt with honorable scars, 

And when my dark voice stumbles with the weight 



HOME, WOUNDED. 261 

Of what it doth relate 

(Like tha blind comrade — blinded in the wars — 

Who bore the one-e} ed brother that was lame), 

You 11 remember 't is the same 

That cried, " Follow me,'» 

Upon a summer's day ; 

And I shall understand with unshed tears 

This great reverence that I see. 

And bless the day — and Thee, 

Lord God of victory ! 

And she, 

Perhaps O even she 

May look as she looked when I knew her 

In those old days of childish sooth, 

Ere my boyhood dared to woo her. 

I will not seek to sue her, 

For I 'm neither fonder nor truer 

Than when she slighted my lovelorn youth, 

My giftless, graceless, guinealess truth. 

And I only lived to rue her. 

But I '11 never love another. 

And, in spite of her lovers and lands, 

She shall love me yet, my brother ! 

As a child that holds by his mother. 
While his mother speaks his praises, 
Holds with eager hands, 
And ruddy and silent stands 
In the ruddy and silent daisies, 
And hears her bless her boy, 
And lifts a wondering joy. 
So I '11 not seek nor sue her, 
But I '11 leave my glory to woo her. 
And I '11 stand hke a child beside, 
And from behind the purple pride 



262 SYDNEY DOBELL. 

I '11 lift my eyes unto her, 

And I shall not be denied. 

And you will love her, brother dear, 

And perhaps next year you '11 bring me here 

All through the balmy April-tide, 

And she will trip like spring by my side, 

And be all the birds to my ear. 

And here all three we '11 sit in the sun. 

And see the Aprils one by one, 

Primrosed Aprils on and on. 

Till the floating prospect closes 

In golden ghmmers that rise and rise. 

And perhaps, are gleams of Paradise, 

And perhaps, too far for mortal eyes, 

New springs of fresh primroses. 

Springs of earth's primroses. 

Springs to be and springs for me, 

Of distant dim primroses. 




SIR PHLl.lL^ SIDNEY. 

OB. l')85. 

PROM THE ORIGINAL 0? 311< ANTPMORF. IN THE COLLF.CTiOM CF 
HIS GRACE THE ]ilM<f: dl' ' 1:1 !■: nFOKD 



THOUGHTS FROM THE ARCADIA. 



By sir PHILIP SIDNEY. 

« /^ IVE tribute, but not oblation, to human wisdom." 

\J[ " Longer I would not wish to draw breath, than I 
may keep myself unspotted of any heinous crime." 

" In the clear mind of virtue treason can find no hiding- 
place." 

" The only disadvantage of an honest heart is creduhty." 

"The hero's soul may be separated from his body, but 
never alienated from the remembrance of virtue." 

" Doing good is the only certainly happy action of a 
man's life." 

" The journey of high honor lies not in smooth ways." 

" Who shoots at the midday sun, though he is sure he 
shall never hit the mark, yet as sure he is that he shall 
shoot higher than he who aims but at a bush." 

" Remember that in all miseries, lamenting becomes fools, 
and action, the wise." 

" The great, in affliction, bear a countenance more prince- 
ly than they were wont; for it is the temper of highest 
hearts, like the palm-tree, to strive most upward when it is 
most burdened." 

" The perfect hero passeth through the multitude as a 
man that neither disdains a people, nor yet is anything 
tickled with their flattery." 

" In a brave bosom, honor cannot be rocked asleep by 
affection." 



264 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 

" Contention for trifles can get but a trifling victory." 
" Prefer truth, before the maintaining of an opinion." 
"A man of true honor thinks himself greater in being 
subject to his word given, than in being lord of a princi- 
pality." 

" Joyful is woe for a noble cause, and welcome all its mis- 
eries." 

" There is nothing evil but what is within us; the rest is 
either natural or accidental." 

" While there is hope left, let not the weakness of sorrow 
make the strength of resolution languish." 

" Who frowns at others' feasts, had better bide away." 
" Friendship is so rare, as it is to be doubted whether it 
be a thing indeed, or but a word." 

" Prefer your friend's profit before your own desire." 
" A just man hateth the evil, but not the evil-doer.'* 
" One look (in a clear judgment) from a fair and virtuous 
woman is more acceptable than all the kindnesses so prodi- 
gally bestowed by a wanton beauty." 

"It is folly to believe that he can faithfully love who 
does not love faithfulness." 

" Who doth desire that his wife should be chaste, first be 
he true ; for truth doth deserve truth." 

" It is no less vain to wish death than it is cowardly to 
fear it." 

" Everything that is mine, even to my life, is hers I love, 
hut the secret of my friend is not mine.^' 



THE NAME IN THE BARK. 



By J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 



THE self of so long ago, 
And the self I struggle to know, 
I sometimes think we are two, — or are we shadows of one ? 
To-day the shadow I am 
Comes back in the sweet summer calm 
To trace where the earlier shadow flitted awhile in the sun. 

Once more in the dewy morn 

I trod through the whispering corn, 
Cool to my fevered cheek soft breezy kisses were blown ; 

The ribboned and tasselled grass 

Leaned over the flattering glass. 
And the sunny waters trilled the same low musical tone. 

To the gray old birch I came. 

Where I whittled my school-boy name : 
The nimble squirrel once more ran skippingly over the rail, 

The blackbirds down among 

The alders noisily sung, 
And under the blackberry-brier whistled the serious quail. 

I came, remembering well 
How my little shadow fell, 
As I painfully reached and wrote to leave to the future a 
sign: 



266 J. T. TROWBEIDGE. 

There, stooping a little, I found 
A half-healed, curious wound, 
An ancient scar in the bark, l^ut no initial of mine ! 

Then the wise old boughs overhead 
Took counsel together, and said, — 
And the buzz of their leafy lips like a murmur of prophecy 
passed, — 
" He is busily carving a name 
In the tough old wrinkles of fame ; 
But, cut he as deep as he may, the lines will close over at 
last!" 

Sadly I pondered awhile, 

Then I lifted my soul with a smile, 
And I said, " Not cheerful men, but anxious children are we. 

Still hurting ourselves with the knife. 

As we toil at the letters of life, 
Just marring a little the rind, never piercing the heart of 
the tree." 

And now by the rivulet's brink 

I leisurely saunter, and think 
How idle this strife will appear when circling ages have run, 

If then the real I am 

Descend from the heavenly calm. 
To trace where the shadow I seem once flitted awhile in the 
sun. 



^StSgOm 



A WOMAN. 

By rose terry. 

" Not perfect, nay ! but full of tender wants." — The Princess. 

I SAT by my window sewing, one bright autumn day, 
thinking much of twenty other things, and very lit- 
tle of the long seam that slipped away from under my 
lingers slowly, but steadily, when I heard the front door 
open with a quick push, and directly into my open door 
entered Laura Lane, with a degree of impetus that ex- 
plained the previous sound in the hall. She threw herself 
into a chair before me, flung her hat on the floor, threw 
her shawl across the window-sill, and looked at me ^vith- 
out speaking : in fact, she was quite too much out of breath 
to speak. 

I was used to Laura's impetuousness ; so I only smiled, 
and said, " Good morning." 

" Oh ! " said Laura, with a long breath, " I have got some- 
thing to tell you. Sue." 

" That 's nice," said I ; " news is worth double here in the 
country ; tell me slowly, to prolong the pleasure." 

"You must guess first. I want to have you try your 
powers for once ; guess, do ! " 

"Mr. Lincoln defeated?" 

"O no, — at least not that I know of; all the returns 
from this State are not in yet, of course not from the 
others ; besides, do you think I 'd make such a fuss about 
politics ? " 



268 EOSE TEERY. 

"You might," said I, thinking of all the beautiful and 
brilliant women that in other countries and other times had 
made " fuss " more potent than Laura's about politics. 

"But I should n't," retorted she. 

" Then there is a new novel out ? " 

" No ! " (with great indignation). 

" Or the parish have resolved to settle Mr. Hermann ? " 

" How stupid you are, Sue ! Everybody knew that yes- 
terday." 

" But I am not everybody." 

" I shall have to help you, I see," sighed Laura, half pro- 
voked. " Somebody is going to be married." 

" Mademoiselle, the great Mademoiselle ! " 

Laura stared at me. I ought to have remembered she 
was eighteen, and not likely to have read Sevigne. I began 
more seriously, laying down my seam. 

" Is it anybody I know, Laura ? " 

" Of course, or you would n't care about it, and it would 
be no fun to tell you." 

" Is it you ? " 

Laura grew indignant. 

" Do you think I should bounce in, in this way, to tell 
you / was engaged ? " 

" Why not ? should n't you be happy about it ? " 

"Well, if I were, I should-^" 

Laura dropped her beautiful eyes and colored. 

" The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I am sure she felt as much strange, sweet shyness sealing 
her girlish lips at that moment as when she came, very 
slowly and silently, a year after, to tell me she was engaged 
to Mr. Hermann. I had to smile and sigh both. 
" Tell me, then, Laura ; for I cannot guess." 
" I '11 tell you the gentleman's name, and perhaps you can 
guess the lady's then : it is Frank Addison." 



^SUfiflii 



A WOMAN. 269 

" Frank Addison ! " echoed I, in surprise ; for this young 
man was one I knew and loved well, and I could not think 
who in our quiet village had sufficient attraction for his fas- 
tidious taste. 

He was certainly worth marrying, though he had some 
faults, being as proud as was endurable, as shy as a child, 
and altogether endowed with a full appreciation, to say the 
least, of his own charms and merits : but he was sincere 
and loyal and tender ; well cultivated, yet not priggish or 
pedantic ; brave, well-bred, and high-principled ; handsome 
besides. I knew him thoroughly ; I had held him on my 
lap, fed him with sugar-plums, soothed his child-sorrows, 
and scolded his naughtiness, many a time ; I had stood with 
him by his mother's dying-bed and consoled him by my own 
tears, for his mother I loved dearly ; so, ever since, Frank 
had been both near and dear to me, for a mutual sorrow is 
a tie that may bind together even a young man and an old 
maid in close and kindly friendship. I was the more sur- 
prised at his engagement because I thought he would have 
been the first to tell me of it ; but I reflected that Laura 
was his cousin, and relationship has an etiquette of prece- 
dence above any other social link. 

" Yes, — Frank Addison ! Now guess. Miss Sue ! for he 
is not here to tell you, — he is in New York ; and here in 
my pocket I have got a letter for you, but you sha'n't have 
it till you have well guessed." 

I was, — I am ashamed to confess it, — but I was not a 
little comforted at hearing of that letter. One may shake 
up a woman's heart with every alloy of life, grind, break, 
scatter it, till scarce a throb of its youth beats there, but to 
its last bit it is feminine still ; and I felt a sudden sweetness 
of relief to know that my boy had not forgotten me. 

" I don't know whom to guess, Laura ; who ever marries 
after other people's fancy ? If I were to guess Sally Heth- 
eridge, I might come as near as I shall to the truth." 



270 ROSE TEREY. 

Laura laughed. 

" You know better," said she. " Frank Addison is the 
last man to marry a dried-up old tailoress." 

"I don't know that he is; according to his theories of 
women and marriage, Sally would make him happy. She 
is true-hearted, I am sure, — generous, kind, affectionate, 
sensible, and poor. Frank has always raved about the 
beauty of the soul, and the degradation of marrying money, 
— therefore, Laura, I believe he is going to marry a beauty 
and an heiress. I guess Josephine Bowen." 

" Susan ! " exclaimed Laura, with a look of intense aston- 
ishment, " how could you guess it ? " 

"Then it is she?" 

" Yes, it is, — and I am so sorry ! such a childish, gig- 
gling, silly little creature ! I can't think how Frank could 
fancy her ; she is just like Dora in ' David Copperfield,' — 
a perfect gosling ! I am as vexed — " 

"But she is exquisitely pretty." 

" Pretty ! well, that is all ; he might as well have bought 
a nice picture, or a dolly ! I am out of all patience with 
Frank. I have n't the heart to congratulate him." 

" Don't be unreasonable, Laura ; when you get as old as 
I am, you will discover how much better and greater facts 
are than theories. It 's all very well for men to say, — 

' Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat, — 

the soul is all they love, — the fair, sweet character, the 
lofty mind, the tender woman's heart, and gentle loveliness ; 
but when you come down to the statistics of love and mat- 
rimony, you find Sally Hetheridge at sixty an old maid, and 
Miss Bowen at nineteen adored by a dozen men and en- 
gaged to one. No, Laura, if I had ten sisters, and a fairy 
godmother for each, I should request that ancient dame to 
endow them all with beauty and silliness, sure that thei* 
they would achieve a woman's best destiny, — a home." 



A WOMAN. 271 

Laura's face burned indignantly ; she hardly let me finish 
before she exclaimed, — 

" Susan Lee ! I am ashamed of you ! Here are you, an 
old maid, as happy as anybody, decrying all good gifts to a 
woman, except beauty, because, indeed, they stand in the 
way of her marriage ! as if a woman was only made to be 
a housekeeper ! " 

Laura's indignation amused me. I went on, — 

" Yes, I am happy enough ; but I should have been much 
happier had I married. Don't waste your indignation, 
dear ; you are pretty enough to excuse your being sensible, 
and you ought to agree with my ideas, because they excuse 
Frank, and yours do not." 

" I don't want to excuse him ; I am really angry about it. 
I can't bear to have Frank throw himself away ; she is 
pretty now, but what will she be in ten years ? " 

" People in love do not usually enter into such remote 
calculations ; love is to-day's delirium ; it has an element of 
divine faith in it, in not caring for the morrow. But Laura, 
we can't help this matter, and we have neither of us any 
conscience involved in it. Miss Bowen may be better than 
we know. At any rate, Frank is happy, and that ought to 
satisfy both you and me just now." 

Laura's eyes filled with tears. I could see them glisten 
on the dark lashes, as she affected to tie her hat, all the 
time untying it as fast as ever the knot slid. She was a 
sympathetic little creature, and loved Frank very sincerely, 
having known him as long as she could remember. She 
gave me a silent kiss, and went away, leaving the letter, 
yet unopened, lying in my lap. I did not open it just then. 
I was thinking of Josephine Bowen. 

Every summer, for three years, IMi*. and Mrs. Bowen had 
come to Ridgefield for country air, bringing with them their 
adopted daughter, whose baptismal name had resigned in 
favor of the pet appellation " Kitten," — a name better 



27^ EOSE TERRY. 

adapted to lier nature and aspect than the Imperatrice ap- 
pellation that belonged to her. She was certainly as 
charming a little creature as ever one saw in flesh and 
blood. Her sweet child's-face, her dimpled, fair cheeks, her 
rose-bud of a mouth, and great, wistful, blue eyes, that 
laughed like flax-flowers in a south wind, her tiny, round 
chin, and low, white forehead, were all adorned by profuse 
rings and coils and curls of true gold-yellow>, that never 
would grow long, or be braided, or stay smooth, or do any- 
thing but ripple and twine and push their shining tendrils 
out of every bonnet or hat or hood the little creature wore, 
like a stray parcel of sunbeams that would shine. Her del- 
icate, tiny figure was as round as a child's, — her funny 
hands as quaint as some fat baby's, with short fingers and 
dimpled knuckles. She was a creature as much made to be 
petted as a King Charles spaniel, — and petted she was, 
far beyond any possibility of a crunipled rose-leaf. Mrs. 
Bowen was fat, loving, rather foolish, but the best of friends 
and the poorest of enemies ; she wanted everybody to be 
happy and fat and well as she was, and would urge the 
necessity of wine, and entire idleness, and horse-exercise, 
upon a poor minister, just as honestly and energetically as 
if he could have afforded them : an idea to the contrary 
never crossed her mind spontaneously, but, if introduced 
there, brought forth direct results of bottles, bank-bills, and 
loans of ancient horses, only to be checked by friendly re- 
monstrance, or the suggestion that a poor man might be also 
proud. Mr. Bowen was tall and spare, a man of much 
sense and shrewd kindliness, but altogether subject and sub- 
missive to " Kitten's " slightest wish. She never wanted 
anything ; no princess in a story-book had less to desire ; 
and this entire spoiHng and indulgence seemed to her only 
the natural course of things. She took it as an open rose 
takes sunshine, with so much simplicity, and heartiness, and 
beaming content, and perfume of sweet, careless affection, 



A WOMAN. 273 

that she was not given over to any little vanities or aiFecta- 
tions, but was always a dear, good little child, as happy as 
the day was long, and quite without a fear or apprehension. 
I had seen very little of her in those three summers, for I 
had been away at the sea-side, trying to fan the flickering 
life that alone was left to me with pungent salt breezes and 
stinging baptisms of spray, but I had liked that little pretty 
well. I did not think her so silly as Laura did ; she seemed 
to me so purely simple, that I sometimes wondered if her 
honest directness and want of guile were folly or not. But 
I liked to see her, as she cantered past my door on her pony, 
the gold tendrils thick clustered about her throat and under 
the brim of her black hat, and her bright blue eyes sparkling 
with the keen air, and a real wild-rose bloom on her smiling 
face. She was a prettier sight even than my profuse chrys- 
anthemums, whose masses of garnet and yellow and white 
nodded languidly to the autumn winds to-day. 

I recalled myself from this dream of recollection, better 
satisfied with Miss Bowen than I had been before. I could 
see just how her beauty had bewitched Frank, — so bright, 
so tiny, so loving : one always wants to gather a little, gay, 
odor-breathing rose-bud for one's own, and such she was to 
him. 

So then I opened his letter. It was dry and stiff: men's 
letters almost always ar^ they cannot say what they feel ; 
they will be fluent of statistics, or description, or philosophy, 
or politics, but as to feeling, — there they are dumb, except 
in real love-letters, and, of course, Frank's was unsatisfac- 
tory accordingly. Once, toward the end, came out a natural 
sentence : " Sue ! if you knew her, you would n't won- 
der ! " So he had, after all, felt the apology he would not 
speak; he had some little deference left for his deserted 
theories. 

Well I knew what touched his pride, and struck tliat 
little, revealing spavk from his deliberate pen : Joscpliine 
18 



274 EOSE TERRY. 

Bowen was rich, and he only a poor lawyer in a country 
town : he felt it even in this first flush of love, and to that 
feeling I must answer when I wrote him, — not merely to 
the announcement, and the delight, and the man's pride. 
So I answered his letter at once, and he answered mine in 
person. I had nothing to say to him, when I saw him ; it 
was enough to see how perfectly happy and contented he 
was, — how the proud, restless eyes that had always looked 
a challenge to all the world were now tranquil to their 
depths. Nothing had interfered with his passion. Mrs. 
Bowen hked him always, Mr. Bowen liked him now ; no- 
body had objected, it had not occurred to anybody to object ; 
money had not been mentioned any more than it would 
have been in Arcadia. Strange to say, the good, simple 
woman, and the good, shrewd man had both divined Frank's 
peculiar sensitiveness, and respected it. 

There was no period fixed for the engagement, it was in- 
definite as yet, and the winter, with all its excitements of 
South and North, passed by at length, and the first of April 
the Bowens moved out to Ridgefield. It was earlier than 
usual; but the city was crazed with excitement, and Mr. 
Bowen was tried and worn ; he wanted quiet. Then I saw 
a great deal of Josephine, and in spite of Laura, and her 
still restless objections to the child's childish, laughing, incon- 
sequent manner, I grew into likftg her: not that there 
seemed any great depth to her ; she was not specially intel- 
lectual, or witty, or studious, or practical ; she did not try 
to be anything : perhaps that was her charm to me. I had 
seen so many women laboring at themselves to be some- 
thing, that one who was content to live without thinking 
about it was a real phenomenon to me. Nothing bores me 
(though I be stoned for the confession, I must make it ! ) 
more than a woman who is bent on improving her mind, or 
forming her manners, or moulding her character, or watch- 
ing her motives, with that deadly-lively conscientiousness 



A WOMAN. 275 

that makes so many good people disagreeable. Why can't 
they consider the lilies, which grow by receiving sun and 
air and dew from God, and not hopping about over the lots 
to find the warmest corner or the wettest hollow, to see 
how much bigger and brighter they can grow ? It was real 
rest to me to have this tiny, bright creature come in to me 
every day during Frank's office-hours as unintentionally as 
a yellow butterfly would come in at the window. Some- 
times she strayed to the kitchen-porch, and, resting her 
elbows on the window-sill and her chin on both palms, looked 
at me with wondering eyes while I made bread or cake ; 
sometimes she came by the long parlor-window, and sat 
down on a hrioche at my feet while I sewed, talking in her 
direct, unconsidered way, so fresh, and withal so good and 
pure, I came to thinking the day very duU that did not 
bring " Kitten " to see me. 

The nineteenth of April, in the evening, my door opened 
again with an impetuous bang ; but this time it was Frank 
Addison, his eyes blazing, his dark cheek flushed, his whole 
aspect flred and furious. 

" Good God, Sue ! do you know what they Ve done in 
Baltimore ? " 

" What ? " said I, in vague terror, for I had been an 
alarmist from the first : I had once lived at the South. 

" Fired on a Massachusetts regiment, and killed — nobody 
knows how many yet ; but killed, and wounded." 

I could not speak : it was the lighted train of a powder- 
magazine burning before my eyes. Frank began to walk 
up and down the room. 

" I must go ! I must ! I must ! " came involuntarily from 
his working lips. 

" Frank ! Frank ! remember Josephine." 

It was a cowardly thing to do, but I did it. Frank turned 
ghastly white, and sat down in a chair opposite me. I 
had for the moment quenched his ardor ; he looked at me 
with anxious eyes, and drew a long sigh, almost a groan. 



276 ROSE TERRY. 

" Josephine ! " lie ^aid, as if the name were new to him, 
so vitally did the idea seize all his faculties. 

" "Well, dear ! " said a sweet little voice at the door. 

Frank turned, and seemed to see a ghost ; for there in 
the doorway stood " Bitten," her face perhaps a shade 
calmer than ordinary, swinging in one hand the tasselled 
hood she wore of an evening, and holding her shawl togeth- 
er with the other. Over her head we discerned the spare, 
upright shape of Mr. Bowen, looking grim and penetrative, 
but not unkindly. 

" What is the matter ? " went on the little lady. 

Nobody answered, but Frank and I looked at each other. 
She came in now and went toward him, Mr. Bowen follow- 
ing at a respectful distance, as if he were her footman. 

" I've been looking for you everywhere," said she, with 
the slightest possible suggestion of reserve, or perhaps ti- 
midity, in her voice. " Father went first for me, and when 
you were not at Laura's or the office, or the post-office, or 
Mrs. Sledge's, then I knew you were here ; so I came with 
him, because — because " — she hesitated the least bit here 
— " we love Sue." 

Frank still looked at her with his soul in his eyes, as if 
he wanted to absorb her utterly into himself and then die. 
I never saw such a look before ; I hope I never may again ; 
it haunts me to this day. 

I can pause now to recall and reason about the curious, 
exalted atmosphere that seemed suddenly to have surround- 
ed us, as if bare spirits communed there, not flesh and 
blood. Frank did not move ; he sat and looked at her 
standing near him, so near that her shawl trailed against 
his chair ; but presently when she wanted to grasp some- 
thing, she moved aside and took hold of another chair, — 
not his : it was a little thing, but it interpreted her. 

" Well ? " said he in a hoarse tone. 

Just then she moved, as I said, and laid one hand on 



A WOMAN. 277 

the back of a chair : it was the only symptom of emotion 
she showed ; her voice was as childish-clear and steady 
as before. 

" You want to go, Frank, and I thought you would rather 
be married to me first ; so I came to find you and tell you 
I would." 

Frank sprang to his feet like a shot man ; I cried ; Jose- 
phine stood looking at us quite steadily, her head a little 
bent toward me, her eyes calm, but very wide open ; and 
Mr. Bowen gave an audible grunt. I suppose the right 
thing for Frank to have done in any well-regulated novel 
would have been to fall on his knees and call her all sorts 
of names ; but people never do — that is, any 23eople that I 
know — just what the gentlemen in novels do ; so he walked 
off and looked out of the window. To my aid came the 
goddess of slang. I stopped snuffling directly. 

" Josephin,e," said I, solemnly, " you are a brick ! " 

" Well, I should think so ! " said Mr. Bowen, slightly 
sarcastic. 

Josey laughed very softly. Frank came back from the 
window, and then the three went off together, she holding 
by her father's arm, Frank on his other side. I could not 
but look after them as I stood in the hall-door, and then I 
came back and sat down to read the paper Frank had flung 
on the floor when he came in. It diverted my mind enough 
from myself to enable me to sleep ; for I was bui'ning with 
self-disgust to think of my cowardice, — I, a grown woman, 
supposed to be more than ordinarily strong-minded by some 
people, fairly shamed and routed by a girl Laura Lane 
called "Dora"! 

Li the morning, Frank came directly after breakfast. 
He had found his tongue now, certainly, — for words 
seemed noway to satisfy him, talking of Josephine ; and 
presently she came, too, as brave and bright as ever, sewing 
busily on a long housewife for Frank ; and after her, IMrs. 



278 ROSE TERRY. 

Bowen, making a huge pin-ball in red, white, and blue, and 
full of the trunk she was packing for Frank to carry, to 
be filled with raspberry-jam, hard gingerbread, old brandy, 
clove-cordial, guava jelly, strong peppermints, quinine, black 
cake, cod-liver oil, horehound-candy, Brandreth's pills, dam- 
son-leather, and cherry-pectoral, packed in with flannel and 
cotton bandages, lint, lancets, old linen, and cambric hand- 
kerchiefs. 

I could not help laughing, and was about to remonstrate, 
when Frank shook his head at me from behind her. He 
said afterward he let her go on that way, because' it kept 
her from crying over Josephine. As for the trunk, he 
should give it to Miss Dix as soon as ever he reached 
Washington. 

In a week, Frank had got his commission as captain of a 
company in a volunteer regiment ; he went into camp at 
Dartford, our chief town, and set to work in earnest at tac- 
tics and drill. The Bowens also went to Dartford, and the 
last week in May came back for Josey's wedding. I am a 
superstitious creature, — most women are, — and it went to 
my heart to have them married in May ; but I did not say 
so, for it seemed imperative, as the regiment were to leave 
for Washington in June, early. 

The day but one before the wedding was one of those 
warm, soft days that so rarely come in May. My windows 
were open, and the faint scent of springing grass and open- 
ing blossoms came in on every southern breath of wind. 
Josey had brought her work over to sit beside me. She 
was hemming her wedding-veil, — a long cloud of tulle ; 
and as she sat there, pinching the frail stuff in her fingers, 
and handling her needle with such deft little ways, as if 
they were old friends and understood each other, there was 
something so youthful, so unconscious, so wistfully sweet in 
her aspect, I could not believe her the same resolute, brave 
creature I had seen that niglit in April. 



A WOMAN. 279 

" Josey," said T, " I don't know how you can be willing to 
let Frank go." 

It was a hard thing for me to say, and I said it without 
thinking. 

She leaned back in her chair, and pinched her hem faster 
than ever. 

" I don't know, either," said she. " I suppose it was be- 
cause I ought. I don't think I am so willing now. Sue : it 
was easy at first, for I was so angry and grieved about those 
Massachusetts men ; but now, when I get time to think, I 
do ache over it ! I never let him know ; for it is just the 
same right now, and he thinks so. Besides, I never let my- 
self grieve much, even to myself, lest he might find it out. 
I must keep bright till he goes. It would be so very hard 
on him, Susy, to think I was crying at home." 

I said no more, — I could not ; and happily for me, 
Frank came in with a bunch of wild-flowers that Josey took 
with a smile as gay as the columbines, and a blush that out- 
shone the " pinkster-bloomjes," as our old Dutch " chore- 
man " called the wild honeysuckle. A perfect shower of 
dew fell from them all over her wedding-veil. 

The day of her marriage was showery as April, but a 
gleam of soft, fitful sunshine streamed into the little church- 
windows, and fell across the tiny figure that stood by Frank 
Addison's side, like a ray of glory, till the golden curls glit- 
tered through her veil, and the fresh lilies-of-the-valley that 
crowned her hair and ornamented her simple dress seemed 
to send out a fresher fragrance, and glow with more pearly 
whiteness. Mrs. Bowen, in a square pew, sobbed and snuf- 
fled, and sopped her eyes with a lace pocket-handkerchief, 
and spilt cologne all over her dress, and mashed the flowers 
on her French hat against the dusty pew-rail, and behaved 
generally like a hen that has lost her sole chicken. Mr. 
Bowen sat upright in the pew-corner, uttering sonorous 
hems, whenever his wife sobbed audibly ; he looked as dry 



280 ROSE TERRY. 

as a stick, and as grim as Bunyan's giant, and chewed car- 
damom-seeds, as if he were a ruminating animal. 

After the wedding came lunch : it was less formal than 
dinner, and nobody wanted to sit down before hot dishes 
and go through with the accompanying ceremonies. For 
my part, I always did hate gregarious eating : it is well 
enough for animals, in pasture or pen ; but a thing that has 
so little that is graceful or dignified about it as this taking 
food, especially as the thing is done here in America, 
ought, in my opinion, to be a solitary act. I never bring 
my quinine and iron to my friends and invite them to share 
it ; why should I ask them to partake of my beef, mutton, 
and pork, with the accompanying mastication, the distortion 
of face, and the suppings and gulpings of fluid dishes that 
many respectable people indulge in ? No, — let me, at 
least, eat alone. But I did not do so to-day; for Josey, 
with the most unsentimental air of hunger, sat down at the 
table and ate two sandwiches, three pickled mushrooms, a 
piece of pie, and a glass of jelly, with a tumbler of ale be- 
sides. Laura Lane sat on the other side of the table, her 
great dark eyes intently fixed on Josephine, and a look in 
which wonder was delicately shaded with disgust quivering 
about her mouth. She was a feeling soul, and thought a 
girl in love ought to live on strawberries, honey, and spring- 
water. I believe she really doubted Josey's affection for 
Frank, when she saw her eat a real mortal meal on her 
wedding-day. As for me, I am a poor, miserable, unhealthy 
creature, not amenable to ordinary dietetic rules, and much 
given to taking any excitement, above a certain amount in 
lieu of rational food ; so I sustained myself on a cup of 
coffee, and saw Frank also make tolerable play of knife and 
fork, though he did take some blanc-mange with his cold 
chicken, and profusely peppered his Charlotte-Russe ! 

Mrs. Bowen alternately wept and ate pie. Mr. Bowen 
said the jelly tasted of turpentine, and the chickens must 



A WOMAN. 281 

have gone on Noah's voyage, they were so tough ; he 
growled at the ale, and asked nine questions about the 
coffee, all of a derogatory sort, and never once looked at 
Josephine, who looked at him every time he was particularly 
cross, with a rosy little smile as if she knew why ! The 
few other people present behaved after the ordinary fashion ; 
and when we had finished, Frank and Josephine, IVIr. and 
Mrs. Bowen, Laura Lane and I, all took the train for Dart- 
ford. Laura was to stay two weeks, and I till the regiment 
left. 

An odd time I had, after we were fairly settled in our 
quiet hotel, with those two girls. Laura was sentimental, 
sensitive, rather high-flown, very shy, and self-conscious ; it 
was not in her to understand Josey at all. We had a great 
deal of shopping to do, as our little bride had put off buying 
most of her finery till this time, on account of the few 
weeks between the fixing of her marriage-day and its arri- 
val. It was pretty enough to see the naive vanity with 
which she selected her dresses and shawls and laces, — the 
quite inconsiderate way in which she spent her money on 
whatever she wanted. One day we were in a dry-goods' 
shop, looking at silks ; among them lay one of Marie-Louise 
blue, — a plain silk, rich from its heavy texture only, soft, 
thick, and perfect in color. 

" I will have that one," said Josephine, after she had eyed 
it a moment, with her head on one side, like a canary-bird. 
"How much is it?" 

" Two fifty a yard, Miss," said the spruce clerk, with an 
inaccessible air. 

" I shall look so nice in it ! " Josey murmured. " Sue, 
will seventeen yards do ? it must be very full and long ; I 
can't wear flounces." 

" Yes, that 's plenty," said I, scarce able to keep down a 
smile at Laura's face. 

She would as soon have smoked a cigar on the steps of 



282 ROSE TEERY. 

the hotel as have mentioned before anybody, much less a 
supercilious clerk, that she should " look so nice " in any- 
thing. Josey never thought of anything beyond the fact, 
which was only a fact. So, after getting another dress of a 
lavender tint, still self-colored, but corded and rich, because 
it went well with her complexion, and a black one, that 
" father liked to see against her yellow wig, as he called it," 
Mrs. Josephine proceeded to a milliner's, where, to Laura's 
further astonishment, she bought bonnets for herself, as if 
she had been her own doll, with an utter disregard of prop- 
er self-depreciation, trying one after another, and discarding 
them for various personal reasons, till at last she fixed on a 
little gray straw, trimmed with gray ribbon and white dai- 
sies, "for camp," she said, and another of white lace, a 
fabric calculated to wear twice, perhaps, if its floating 
sprays of clematis did not catch in any parasol on its first 
appearance. She called me to see how becoming both the 
bonnets were, viewed herself in various ways in the glass, 
and at last announced that she looked prettiest in the straw, 
but the lace was most elegant. To this succeeded purchases 
of lace and shawls, that still further opened Laura's eyes, and 
made her face grave. She confided to me privately, that, 
after all, I must allow Josephine was silly and extravagant. 
I had just come from that little lady's room, where she sat 
surrounded by the opened parcels, saying, with the gravity 
of a child, — 

" I do like pretty things. Sue ! I like them more now 
than I used to, because Frank likes me. I am so glad 
I 'm pretty ! " 

I don't know how it was, but I could not quite coincide 
with Laura's strictures. Josey was extravagant, to be sure ; 
she was vain ; but something so tender and feminine fla- 
vored her very faults that they charmed me. I was not 
an impartial judge ; and I remembered, through all, that 
April night, and the calm, resolute, self-poised character 



■MHMJHHBMm 



A WOMAN. 283 

that invested the lovely, girlish face with such dignity, 
strength, and simplicity. No, she was not silly ; I could not 
grant that to Laura. 

Every day we drove to the camp, and brought Frank 
home to dinner. Now and then he stayed with us till the 
next day, and even Laura could not wonder at his " infatua- 
tion," as she had once called it, when she saw how thor- 
oughly Josephine forgot herself in her utter devotion to 
him ; over this, Laura's eyes filled with sad forebodings. 

" If anytliing should happen to him, Sue, it will kill her," 
she said. " She never can lose him and live. Poor little 
thing ! how could Mr. Bowen let her marry him ? " 

" Mr. Bowen lets her do much as she likes, Laura, and 
always has, I imagine." 

" Yes, she has been a spoiled child, I know, but it is such 
a pity!" 

" Has she been spoiled ? I believe, as a general thing, 
more children are spoiled by wliat the Scotch graphically 
call ' nagging ' than by indulgence. What do you think 
Josey would have been, if Mrs. Brooks had been her 
mother ? " 

" I don't know quite ; unhappy I am sure ; for IMrs. 
Brooks's own children look as if they had been fed on 
chopped catechism, and whipped early every mornmg, ever 
since they were born. I never went there without hearing 
one or another of them told to sit up, or sit down, or keep 
still, or let their aprons alone, or read their Bibles ; and Joe 
Brooks confided to me in Sunday school that he called Dea- 
con Smith ' old bald-head,' one day, in the street, to see if 
a bear would n't come and eat him up, he was so tired of 
being a good boy ! " 

" That 's a case in point, I think, Laura ; but what a jolly 
little boy ! he ought to have a week to be naughty in, di- 
rectly." 

" He never will, wliile his mother owns a rod ! " said she, 
emphatically. 



284 ROSE TERRY. 

I had beguiled Laura from her subject ; for, to tell the 
truth, it was one I did not dare to contemplate ; it op- 
pressed and distressed me too much. 

After Laura went home, we stayed in Dartford only a 
week, and then followed the regiment to Washington. We 
had been there but a few days, before it was ordered into 
service. Frank came into my room one night to tell me. 

" We must be off to-morrow, Sue, — and you must take 
her back to Ridgefield at once. I can't have her here. I 
have told ]Mr. Bowen. If we should be beaten, — and we 
may, — raw troops may take a panic, or may fight like vet- 
erans, — but if we should run, they will make a bee-line for 
Washington. I should go mad to have her here with a pos- 
sibility of Rebel invasion. She must go ; there is no ques- 
tion." 

He walked up and down the room, then came back and 
looked me straight in the face. 

" Susan, if I never come back, you will be her good 
friend, too ? " 

" Yes," said I, meeting his eye as coolly as it met mine : 
I had learned a lesson of Josey. " I shall see you in the 
morning ? " 

" Yes " ; and so he went back to her. 

Morning came. Josephine was as bright, as calm, as nat- 
ural, as the June day itself. She insisted on fastening " her 
Captain's " straps on his shoulders, purloined his cumbrous 
pin-ball and put it out of sight, and kept even Mrs. Bowen's 
sobs in subjection by the intense serenity of her manner. 
The minutes seemed to go like beats of a fever-pulse ; ten 
o'clock smote on a distant bell ; Josephine had retreated, as 
if accidentally, to a little parlor of her own, opening from 
our common sitting-room. Frank shook hands with Mr. 
Bowen ; kissed Mrs. Bowen dutifully, and cordially too ; 
gave me one strong clasp in his arms, and one kiss ; then 
went after Josephine. I closed the door softly behind him. 



A WOMAN. 285 

In five minutes by the ticking clock he came out, and strode 
through the room without a glance at either of us. I had 
heard her say " Good by " in her sweet, clear tone, just as 
he opened the door ; but some instinct impelled me to go in 
to her at once : she lay in a dead faint on the floor. 

We left Washington that afternoon, and went straight 
back to E-idgefield. Josey was in and out of my small house 
continually ; but for her father and mother, I think she 
would have stayed with me from choice. Rare letters came 
from Frank, and were always reported to me, but, of course, 
never shown. If there was any change in her manner, it 
was more steadily affectionate to her father and mother than 
ever ; the fitful, playful ways of her girlhood were subdued, 
but, except to me, she showed no symptom of pain, no shad- 
ow of apprehension : with me alone she sometimes drooped 
and sighed. Once she laid her little head on my neck, and, 
holding me to her tightly, half sobbed, — 

" Oh, I wish — I wish I could see him just for once ! " 

I could not speak to answer her. 

As rumors of a march toward Manassas increased, Mr. 
and Mrs. Bowen took her to Dartford : there was no tele- 
graph line to Ridgefield, and but one daily mail, and now a 
day's delay of news might be a vital loss. I could not go 
with them ; I was too ill. At last came that dreadful day 
of Bull Run. Its story of shame and blood, trebly exagger- 
ated, ran like fire through the land. For twenty-four long 
hours every heart in Ridgefield seemed to stand still ; then 
there was the better news of fewer dead than the first re- 
port, and we knew that the enemy had retreated, but no 
particulars. Another long, long day, and the papers said 

Colonel 's regiment was cut to pieces ; the fourth mail 

told another story : the regiment was safe, but Captains 
Addison, Black, and — Jones, I think, were missing. The 
fifth day brought me a letter from Mr. Bowen. Frank was 
dead, shot through the heart, before the panic began, cheer- 



286 ROSE TERRY. 

ing on his men ; he had fallen in the very front rank, and 
his gallant company, at the risk of their lives, after losing 
half their number as wounded or killed, had brought off his 
body, and carried it with them in retreat, to find at last that 
they had ventured all this for a lifeless corpse ! 

He did not mention Josephine, but asked me to come to 
them at once, as he was obliged to go to Washington. I 
could not, for I was too ill to travel without a certainty of 
being quite useless at my journey's end. I could but just 
sit up. Five, days after, I had an incoherent sobbing sort 
of letter from Mrs. Bowen, to say that they had arranged to 
have the funeral at Ridgefield the next day but one, — that 
Josephine would come out, with her, the night before, and 
directly to my house, if I was able to receive them. I sent 
word by the morning's mail that I was able, and went my- 
self to the station to meet them. 

They had come alone, and Josey preceded her mother 
into the little room, as if she were impatient to have any 
meeting with a fresh face over. She was pale as any pale 
blossom of spring, and as calm. Her curls, tucked away 
under the widow's-cap she wore, and clouded by the mass 
of crape that shrouded her, left only a narrow line of gold 
above the dead quiet of her brow. Her eyes were like the 
eyes of a sleep-walker : they seemed to see, but not to feel 
sight. She smiled mechanically and put a cold hand into 
mine. For any outward expression of emotion, one might 
have thought Mrs. Bowen the widow : her eyes were blood- 
shot and swollen, her nose was red, her lips tremulous, 
he^' whole face stained and washed with tears, and the 
skin seemed wrinkled by their salt floods. She had cried 
herself sick, — more over Josephine than Frank, as was 
natural. 

It was but a short drive over to my house, but an utterly 
silent one. Josephine made no sort of demonstration, ex- 
cept that she stooped to pat my great dog as we went in. I 



A WOMAN. 287 

gave her a room that opened out of mine, and put Mrs. 
Bowen by herself. Twice in the night I stole in to look at 
her : both times I found her waking, her eyes fixed on the 
open window, her face set in its unnatural quiet ; she smiled, 
but did not speak. Mrs. Bowen told me in the morning 
that she had neither shed a tear nor slept since the news 
came ; it seemed to strike her at once into this cold silence, 
and so she had remained. About ten, a carriage was sent 
over from the village to take them to the funeral. This 
miserable custom of ours, that demands the presence of 
wometi at such ceremonies, Mrs. Bowen was the last person 
to evade ; and when I suggested to Josey that she should 
stay at home with me, she looked surprised, and said, qui- 
etly, but emphatically, " O no ! " 

After they were gone, I took my shawl and went out on 
the lawn. There was a young pine dense enough to shield 
me from the sun, sitting under which I could see the funeral 
procession as it wound along the river's edge up toward the 
burying-ground, a mile beyond the station. But there was 
no sun to trouble me ; cool gray clouds brooded ominously 
over all the sky : a strong south wind cried, and wailed, and 
swept in wild gusts through the woods, while in its intervals 
a dreadful quiet brooded over earth and heaven, — over the 
broad weltering river, that, swollen by recent rain, washed 
the green grass shores with sullen flood, — over the heavy 
masses of oak and hickory trees that hung on the farther 
hillside, — over the silent village and its gathering people. 
The engine-shriek was borne on the coming wind from far 
down the valley. There was an air of hushed expectativ^n 
and regret in Nature itself that seemed to fit the hour to 
its event. 

Soon I saw the crowd about the station begin to move, 
and presently the funeral-bell swung out its solemn tones of 
lamentation; its measured, lingering strokes, mingled with 
the woful shrieking of the wind and the sighing of the 



288 ROSE TERRY. 

pine-tree overhead, made a dirge of inexpressible force and 
melancholy. A weight of grief seemed to settle on my 
very breath : it was not real sorrow ; for, though I knew it 
well, I had not felt yet that Frank was dead, — it was not 
real to me, — I could not take to my stunned perceptions 
the fact that he was gone. It is the protest of Nature, dim- 
ly conscious of her original eternity, against this interruption 
of death, that it should always be such an interruption, so 
incredible, so surprising, so new. No, — the anguish that 
oppressed me now was not the true anguish of loss, but 
merely the effect of these adjuncts ; the pain of want, of 
separation, of reaching in vain after that which is gone, of 
vivid dreams and tearful waking, — all this lay in wait for 
the future, to be still renewed, still suffered and endured, 
till time should be no more. Let all these pangs of recol- 
lection attest it, — these involuntary bursts of longing for 
the eyes that are gone and the voice that is still, — these 
recoils of baffled feeling seeking for the one perfect sympa- 
thy forever fled, — these pleasures dimmed in their first 
resplendence for want of one whose joy would have been 
keener and sweeter to us than our own, — these bitter sor- 
rows crying like children in pain for the heart that should 
have soothed and shared them ! No, — there is no such 
dreary lie as that which prates of consoling Time ! You 
who are gone, if in heaven you know how we mortals fare, 
yon know that life took from you no love, no faith, — that 
bitterer tears fall for you to-day than ever wet your new 
graves, — that the gayer words and the recalled smiles are 
only, like the flowers that grow above you, symbols of the 
deeper roots we strike in your past existence, — that to the 
true soul there is no such thing as forgetfulness, no such 
mercy as diminishing regret ! 

Slowly the long procession wound up the river, — here, 
black with plumed hearse and sable mourners, — there, gay 
with regimental band and bright uniforms, — no stately, 



A WOMAN. 289 

proper funeral, ordered by custom and marshalled by pro- 
priety, but a straggling array of vehicles ; here, the doctor's 
old chaise, — there, an open wagon, a dusty buggy, a long, 
open omnibus, such as the village-stable kept for pleasure- 
parties or for parties of mourning who wanted to go en 
masse. 

All that knew Frank, in or about Ridgefield, and all who 
had sons or brothers in the army, swarmed to do him honor ; 
and the quaint, homely array crept slowly through the val- 
ley, to the sound of tolhng bell and moaning wind and the 
low rush of the swollen river, — the first taste of war's des- 
olation that had fallen upon us, the first dark wave of a 
whelming tide ! 

As it passed out of sight, I heard the wheels cease, one 
by one, their crunch and grind on the gravelled road up the 
slope of the graveyard. I knew they had reached that 
hillside where the dead of E-idgefield lie calmer than its 
living ; and presently the long-drawn notes of that hymn- 
tune consecrated to such occasions — old China — rose and 
fell in despairing cadences on my ear. If ever any music 
was invented for the express purpose of making mourners 
as distracted as any external thing can make them, it is the 
bitter, hopeless, unrestrained wail of this tune. There is 
neither peace nor resignation in it, but the very exhaustion 
of raving sorrow that heeds neither God nor man, but cries 
out, with the soulless agony of a wind-harp, its refusal to be 
comforted. 

At length it was over, and still in that same dead calm 
Josephine came home to me. Mrs. Bowen was frightened, 
Mr. Bowen distressed. I could not think what to do at 
first ; but remembering how sometimes a little thing had 
utterly broken me down from a regained calmness after loss, 
some homely association, some recall of the past, I begged 
of Mr. Bowen to bring up from the village Frank's knap- 
sack, which he had found in one of his men's hands, the 
19 



290 ROSE TEERY. 

poor fellow having taken care of tliat, while he lost his 
own : " For the captain's wife/' he said. As soon as it 
came, I took from it Frank's coat, and his cap and sword. 
My heart was in my mouth as I entered Josephine's lOom, 
and saw the fixed quiet on her face where she sat. I 
walked in, however, with no delay, and laid the things down 
on her bed, close to where she sat. She gave one startled 
look at them and then at me ; her face relaxed from all its 
quiet lines ; she sank on her knees by the bedside, and, 
burying her head in her arms, cried, and cried, and cried, so 
helplessly, so utterly without restraint, that I cried too. It 
was impossible for me to help it. At last the tears exhaust- 
ed themselves ; the dreadful sobs ceased to convulse her ; 
all drenched and tired, she lifted her face from its rest, and 
held out her arms to me. I took her up, and put her to bed 
like a child. I hung the coat and cap and sword where she 
could see them. I made her take a cup of broth, and be- 
fore long, with her eyes fixed on the things I had hung up, 
she fell asleep, and slept heavily, without waking, till the 
next morning. 

I feared almost to enter her room when I heard her stir ; 
I had dreaded her waking, — that terrible hour that all 
know who have suffered, the dim awakening shadow that 
darkens so swiftly to black reality ; but I need not have 
dreaded it for her. She told me afterward that in all that 
sleep she never lost the knowledge of her grief; she did 
not come into it as a surprise. Frank had seemed to be 
with her, distant, sad, yet consoling ; she felt that he was 
gone, but not utterly, — that there was a di-ear separation 
and loneliness, but not forever. 

When I went in, she lay there awake, looking at her tro- 
phy, as she came to call it, her eyes with all their light 
quenched and sodden out with crying, her face pale and 
analterably sad, but natural in its sweetness and mobility. 
She drew me down to her and kissed me. 



A WOMAN. 291 

" May I get up ? " she asked ; and then, without waiting 
for an answer, went on, — "I have been selfish. Sue ; I will 
try to be better now ; I won't run away from my battle. 
O how glad I am he did n't run away ! It is dreadful 
now, dreadful ! Perhaps, if I had to choose if he should 
have run away or — or this, I should have wanted him to 
run, — I 'm afraid I should. But I am glad now. If God 
wanted him, I 'm glad he went from the front ranks. 
those poor women whose husbands ran away, and were 
killed, too!" 

She seemed to be so comforted by that one thought ! It 
was a strange trait in the little creature ; I could not quite 
fathom it. 

After this she came down-stairs and went about among 
us, busying herself in various little ways. She never went 
to the graveyard ; but whenever she was a little tired, I 
was sure to find her sitting in her room with her eyes on 
that cap and coat and sword. Letters of condolence poured 
in, but she would not read them or answer them, and they 
all fell into my hands. I could not wonder ; for of all cruel 
conventionalities, visits and letters of condolence seem to 
me the most cruel. If friends can be useful in lifting off 
the little painful cares that throng in the house of death till 
its presence is banished, let them go and do their work qui- 
etly and cheerfully ; but to make a call or write a note, to 
measure your sorrow and express theirs, seems to me on a 
par with pulling a wounded man's bandages off and probing 
his hurt to hear him cry out and hear yourself say how bad 
it must be ! 

Laura Lane was admitted, for Frank's sake, as she had 
been his closest and dearest relative. The day she came, 
Josey had a severe headache, and looked wretchedly. Lau- 
ra was shocked, and showed it so obviously, that, had there 
been any real cause for her alarm, I should have turned her 
out of the room without ceremony, almost before she was 



292 ROSE TERRY. 

fairly in it. As soon as slie left, Josey looked at me and 
smiled. 

" Laura thinks I am going to die," said she ; " but I 'm 
not. If I could, I would n't. Sue ; for poor father and 
mother want me, and so will the soldiers by and by." A 
weary, heart-breaking look quivered in her face as she went 
on, half whispering, "But I should — \ should like to see 
him ! " 

In September she went away. I had expected it ever 
since she spoke of the soldiers needing her. Mrs. Bowen 
went to the sea-side for her annual asthma. Mr. Bowen 
went with Josephine to Washington. There, by some talis- 
manic influence, she got admission to the hospitals, thoiigh 
she was very pretty, and under thirty. I think perhaps her 
pale face and widow's-dress, and her sad, quiet manner, 
were her secret of success. She worked here like a sprite ; 
nothing daunted or disgusted her. She followed the army 
to Yorktown, and nursed on the transport-ships. One man 
said, I was told, that it was " jes' like havin' an apple-tree 
blow raound, to see that Mis' Addison ; she was so kinder 
cheery an' pooty, an' knew sech a sight abaout nussin', it did 
a feller lots of good only to look at her chirpin' abaout." 

Now and then she wrote to me, and almost always ended 
by declaring she was " quite well, and almost happy." If 
ever she met with one of Frank's men, — and all who were 
left re-enlisted for the war, — he was sure to be nursed like 
a prince, and petted with all sorts of luxuries, and told 
it was for his old captain's sake. Mr. and Mrs. Bowen fol- 
lowed her everywhere, as near as they could get to her, and 
afforded unfailing supplies of such extra hospital stores as 
she wanted ; they lavished on her time and money and love 
enough to have satisfied three women, but Josey found use 
for it all ■— for her work. Two months ago, they all came 
back to Dartford. A hospital had been set up there, and 
some one was needed to put it in operation ; her experience 



A WOMAN. 293 

would be doubly useful there, and it -^as pleasant for 
her to be so near Frank's home, to be among his friends 
and hers. 

I went in, to do what I could, being stronger than usual, 
and found her hard at work. Her face retained its rounded 
outline, her lips had recovered their bloom, her curls now 
and then strayed from the net under which she carefully 
tucked them, and made her look as girlish as ever, but the 
girl's expression was gone ; that tender, patient, resolute 
look was born of a woman's stern experience ; and though 
she had laid aside her widow's-cap, because it was incon- 
venient, her face was so sad in its repose, so lonely and 
inexpectant, she scarce needed any outward symbol to pro- 
claim her widowhood. Yet under all this new character lay 
still some of those childish tastes that made, as it were, the 
" fresh perfume " of her nature : everything that came in 
her way was petted ; a little white kitten followed her about 
the wards, and ran to meet her whenever she came in, with 
joyful demonstrations ; a great dog waited for her at home, 
and escorted her to and from the hospital ; and three cana- 
ries hung in her chamber; — and I confess here, what I 
would not to Laura, that she retains yet a strong taste for 
sugar-plums, gingerbread, and the " Lady's Book." She 
kept only so much of what Laura called her vanity as to be 
exquisitely neat and particular in every detail of dress ; and 
though a black gown, and a white linen apron, collar, and 
cuffs do not afford much room for display, yet these were 
always so speckless and spotless that her whole aspect was 
refreshing. 

Last week there was a severe operation performed in the 
hospital, and Josephine had to be present. She held the 
poor fellow's hand till he was insensible from the kindly 
chloroform they gave him, and, after the surgeons were 
through, sat by him till night, with such a calm, cheerful 
face, giving him wine and broth, and watchmg every indica- 



294 EOSE TERRY. 

tion of pulse or skin, till lie really rallied, and is now doing 
well. 

As I came over, the next day, I met Doctor Rivers at tlie 
door of her ward. 

" Really," said he, " that little Mrs. Addison is a true 
heroine ! " 

The kitten purred about my feet, and as I smiled assent 
to him, I said inwardly to myself, — 

" Really, she is a true woman ! " 



DANIEL GRAY. 



By J. G. HOLLAND. 



IF I shall ever win the home in heaven 
For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, 
In the great company of the forgiven 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

I knew him well ; in fact, few knew him better ; 

For my young eyes oft read for him the Word, 
And saw how meekly from the crystal letter 

He drank the life of his beloved Lord. 

Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted 
On ready words his freight of gratitude, 

And was not called upon among the gifted, 
In the prayer-meetings of his neighborhood. 

He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases, 
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes ; 

And I suppose that, in his prayers and graces, 
I 've heard them all at least a thousand times. 

I see him now, — his form, and face, and motions, 
His homespun habit, and his silver hair, — 

And hear the lano-uaoe of his trite devotions 
Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen-chair. 



296 J. G. HOLLAND. 

I can remember how the sentence sounded, — 
" Help us, t(Ord, to pray, and not to faint ! " 

And how the " conquering-and-to-conquer " rounded 
The loftier aspirations of the saint. 

He had some notions that did not improve him : 
He never kissed his children, — so they say ; 

And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him 
Less than a horseshoe picked up in the way. 

He could see naught but vanity in beauty, 
And naught but weakness in a fond caress, 

And pitied men whose views of Christian duty 
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. 

Yet there were love and tenderness within him ; 

And I am told, that, when his Charley died, 
Nor Nature's need nor gentle words could win him 

From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. 

And when they came to bury little Charley, 

They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair, 

And on his breast a rose-bud, gathered early, — 
And guessed, but did not know, who placed it there. 

My good old friend was very hard on fashion, 

And held its votaries in lofty scorn. 
And often burst into a hol;^ passion 

While the gay crowds went by on Sunday mom. 

Yet he was vain, old Gray, and did not know it ! 

He wore his hair unparted, long, and plain. 
To hide the handsome brow that slept below it, 

For fear the world would think that he was vain ! 



DANIEL GRAY. 297 

He had a hearty hatred of oppression, 

And righteous words for sin of every kind ; 

Alas, that the transgressor and transgression 
Were linked so closely in his honest mind ! 

Yet that sweet tale of gift without repentance. 
Told of the Master, touched him to the core. 

And tearless he could never read the sentence : 
" Neither do I condemn thee : sin no more." 

Honest and faithful, constant in his calling, 
Strictly attendant on the means of grace, 

Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling. 
Old Daniel Gray was always in his place. 

A practical old man, and yet a dreamer, 

He thought that in some strange, unlooked-for way, 
His mighty Friend in heaven, the great Redeemer, 

"Would honor him with wealth some golden day. 

This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit 
Until in death his patient eye grew dim. 

And his Redeemer called him to inherit 

The heaven of wealth long garnered up for him. 

So, if I ever win the home in heaven 

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray. 

In the great company of the forgiven 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 



MY PRIENDS. 



By ALEXANDER CARLYLE. 



IN the year 1753 David Hume was living in Edinburgh 
and composing his History of Great Britain. He was 
a man of great knowledge, and of a social and benevolent 
temper, and truly the best-natured man in the world. He 
was branded with the title of Atheist, on account of the 
many attacks on revealed religion that are to be found in 
his philosophical works, and in many places of his History, 
— the last of which are still more objectionable than the 
first, which a friendly critic might call only sceptical. 
Apropos of this, when Mr. Robert Adam, the celebrated 
architect, and his brother, lived in Edinburgh with their 
mother, an aunt of Dr. Robertson's, and a very respectable 
woman, she said to her son, " I shall be glad to see any of 
your companions to dinner, but I hope you will never bring 
the Atheist here to disturb my peace," But Robert soon 
fell on a method to reconcile her to him, for he introduced 
him under another name, or concealed it carefully from her. 
When the company parted, she said to her son, " I must- 
confess that you bring very agreeable companions about 
you, but the large, jolly man who sat next me is the most 
agreeable of them all." " This was the very Atheist," said 
he, " mother, that you was so much afraid of." " Well, says 
she, " you may bring him here as much as you please, for 
he 's the most innocent, agreeable, facetious man I ever met 




■■IHHrHHHHHMWI 



MY FRIENDS. 299 

with." This was truly the case with him ; for though he 
had much learning and a fine taste, and was professedly a 
sceptic, though by no means an atheist, he had the greatest 
simplicity of mind and manners with the utmost facility and 
benevolence of temper of any man I ever knew. His con- 
versation was truly irresistible, for while it was enlightened, 
it was naive almost to puerility. 

I was one of those who never believed that David Hume's 
sceptical principles had laid fast hold on his mind, but 
thought that his books proceeded rather from affectation of 
superiority and pride of understanding and love of vainglory. 
I was confirmed in this opinion, after his death, by what the 
Honorable Patrick Boyle, one of his most intimate fi-iends, 
told me many years ago at my house in Musselburgh, where 
he used to come and dine the first Sunday of every General 
Assembly, after his brother. Lord Glasgow, ceased to be 
Lord High Commissioner. When we were talking of 
David, Mrs. Carlyle asked Mr. Boyle if he thought David 
Hume was as great an unbeliever as the world took him to 
be ? He answered, that the world judged from his books, 
as they had a right to do; but he thought otherwise, who 
had known him all his life, and mentioned the following 
incident : When David and he were both in London, at the 
period when David's mother died, Mr. Boyle, hearing of it, 
soon after went into his apartment, — for they lodged in the 
same house, — when he found him in the deepest affliction 
and in a flood of tears. After the usual topics of condolence, 
Mr. Boyle said to him, " My friend, you owe this uncom- 
mon grief to your having thrown off" the principles of re- 
ligion ; for if you had not, you would have been consoled by 
the firm belief that the good lady, who was not only the 
best of mothers, but the most pious of Christians, was now 
completely happy in the realms of the just." To which 
David replied, " Though I threw out my speculations to 
entertain and employ the learned and metaphysical world, 



300 ALEXANDER CARLYLE. 

yet in other things I do not think so differently from the rest 
of mankind as you may imagine." To this my wife was a 
witness. This conversation took place the year after David 
died, when Dr. Hill, who was to preach, had gone to a room 
to look over his notes. 

At this period, when he first lived in Edinburgh, and was 
writing his History of England^ his circumstances were nar- 
row, and he accepted the office of Librarian to the Faculty 
of Advocates, worth £ 40 per annum. But it was not for 
the salary that he accepted this employment, but that he 
might have easy access to the books in that celebrated li- 
brary ; for, to my certain knowledge, he gave every farthing 
of the salary to families in distress. Of a piece with this 
temper was his curiosity and credulity, which were without 
bounds, a specimen of which shall be afterwards given when 
I come down to Militia and the Poker. His economy was 
strict, as he loved independency ; and yet he was able at 
that time to give suppers to his friends in his small lodging 
in the Canongate. He took much to the company of the 
younger clergy, not from a wish to bring them over to his 
opinions, for he never attempted to overturn any man's 
principles, but they best understood his notions, and could 
furnish him with literary conversation. Robertson and 
John Home and Bannatine and I lived all in the country, 
and came only periodically to the town. Blair and Jardine 
both lived in it, and suppers being the only fashionable meal 
at that time, we dined where we best could, and by cadies 
assembled our friends to meet us in a tavern by nine 
o'clock ; and a fine time it was when we could collect David 
Hume, Adam Smith, Adam Ferguson, Lord Elibank, and 
Drs. Blair and Jardine, on an hour's warning. I remember 
one night that David Hume, who, having dined abroad, 
came rather late to us, and directly pulled a large key from 
liis pocket, which he laid on the table. This he said was 
given him by his maid Peggy (much more like a man than 



MY FRIENDS. 301 

a woman) that she might not sit up for him, for she said 
when the honest fellows came in from the country, he 
never returned home till after one o'clock. This intimacy 
of the young clergy with David Hume enraged the zealots 
on the opposite side, who little knew how impossible it 
was for him, had he been willing, to shake their prin- 
ciples. 

As Mr. Hume's circumstances improved he enlarged his 
mode of living, and instead of the roasted hen and minced 
collops, and a bottle of punch, he gave both elegant dinners 
and suppers, and the best claret, and, which was best of 
all, he furnished the entertainment with the most instruc- 
tive and pleasing conversation, for he assembled whosoever 
were most knowing and agreeable among either the laity 
or clergy. This he always did, but still more unsparingly 
when he became what he called rich. For innocent mirth 
and agreeable raillery I never knew his match. Jardine, 
who sometimes bore hard upon him, — for he had much 
drollery and wit, though but little learning, — never could 
overturn his temper. Lord Elibank resembled David in 
his talent for collecting agreeable companions together, and 
had a house in town for several winters chiefly for that 
purpose. 

David, who delighted in what the French call plaisan- 
terie, with the aid of Miss Nancy Ord, one of the Chief 
Baron's daughters, contrived and executed one that gave 
him very great delight. As the New Town was making 
its progress westward, he built a house in the southwest 
comer of St. Andrew Square. The street leading south to 
Princess Street had not yet got its name affixed, but they 
got a workman early one morning to paint on the corner- 
stone of David's house " St. David's Street," where it re- 
mains to this day. 

He was at first quite delighted with Ossian's poems, and 
gloried in them ; but on going to London he went over to 



302 ALEXANDER CAELYLE. 

the other side, and loudly affirmed them to be Inventions 
of Macpherson. I happened to say one day, when he was 
declaiming against Macpherson, that I had met with nobody 
of his opinion but William Caddel of Cockenzie, and Presi- 
dent Dundas, which he took ill, and was some time of 
forgetting. This is one instance of what Smellie says of 
him, that though of the best temper in the world, yet he 
could be touched by opposition or rudeness. This was the 
only time I had ever observed David's temper change. I 
can call to mind an Instance or two of his good-natured 
pleasantry. Being at Gilmerton, where David Hume was 
on a visit. Sir David Kinloch made him go to Athlestane- 
ford Church, where I preached for John Home. When we 
met before dinner, " What did you mean," says he to me,' 
" by treating John's congregation to-day with one of Cicero's 
academics ? I did not think that such heathen morality 
would have passed in East Lothian." On Monday, when 
we were assembling to breakfast, David retired to the end 
of the dining-room, when Sir David entered : " What are 
you doing there, Davy ? come to your breakfast." " Take 
away the enemy first," says David. The baronet, thinking 
it was the warm fire that kept David in the lower end of 
the room, rung the bell for a servant to carry some of it off. 
It was not the fire that scared David, but a large Bible that 
was left on a stand at the upper end of the room, a chapter 
of which had been read at the family prayers the night 
before, that good custom not being then out of use when 
clergymen were in the house. Add to this John Home 
saying to him at the Poker Club, when everybody wondered 
what could have made a clerk of Sir William Forbes run 
away with £ 900, — "I know that very well," says John 
Home to David ; " for when he was taken, there was found 
in his pocket your Philosophical Works and Boston's Four- 
fold State of Man." 

David Hume, during all his life, had written the most 



MY FRIENDS. 303 

pleasing and agreeable letters to his friends. I have pre- 
served two of these. But I lately saw two of more early 
date in the hands of Mr. Sandiland Dysart, Esq., W. S., to 
his mother, who was a friend of David's, and a very accom- 
plished woman, one of them dated in 1751, on occasion of 
his brother Hume of NinewelFs marriage ; and the other in 
1754, with a present of the first volume of his History, both 
of which are written in a vein of pleasantry and playfulness 
which nothing can exceed, and which makes me think that 
a collection of his letters would be a valuable present to the 
world, and present throughout a very pleasing picture of his 
mind. 

I have heard him say that Baron Montesquieu, when he 
asked him if he did not think that there would soon be a 
revolution in France favorable to liberty, answered, " No, 
for their noblesse had all become poltroons." He said that 
the club in Paris (Baron Holbach's) to which he belonged 
were of opinion that Christianity would be abolished in 
Europe by the end of the eighteenth century ; and that they 
laughed at Andrew Stuart for making a battle in favor of a 
future state, and called him " L'ame Immortelle." 

David Hume, like Smith, had no discernment at all of 
characters. The only two clergymen whose interests he 
espoused, and for one of whom he provided, were the two 
silliest fellows in the Church. With every opportunity, he 
was ridiculously shy of asking favors, on account of preserv- 
ing his independence, which always appeared to me to be a 
very foolish kind of pride. His friend John Home, ^yiih 
not more benevolence, but with no scruples from a wish of 
independence, for which he was not born, availed himself of 
his influence and provided for hundi'eds, and yet he never 
asked anything for himself. 

Adam Smith, though perhaps only second to David in 
learning and ingenuity, was far inferior to him in conversa- 
tional talents. In that of public speaking they were equal 



304 ALEXANDER CARLYLE. 

— David never tried it, and I never heard Adam but once, 
which was at the first meeting of the Select Society, when 
he opened up the design of the meeting. His voice was 
harsh and enunciation thick, approaching to stammering. 
His conversation was not colloquial, but like lecturing, in 
which I have been told he was not deficient, especially when 
he grew warm. He was the most absent man in company 
that I ever saw, moving his lips, and talking to himself, and 
smiling, in the midst of large companies. If you awaked 
him from his reverie and made him attend to the subject of 
conversation, he immediately began a harangue, and never 
stopped till he told you all he knew about it, with the 
utmost philosophical ingenuity. He knew nothing of 
characters, and yet was ready to draw them on the slight- 
est invitation. But when you checked him or doubted, he 
retracted with the utmost ease, and contradicted all he had 
been saying. His journey abroad with the Duke of Buc- 
cleuch cured him in part of those foibles ; but still he 
appeared very unfit for the intercourse of the world as a 
travelling tutor. But the Duke was a character, both in 
point of heart and understanding, to surmount all disadvan- 
tages, — he could learn nothing ill from a philosopher of 
the utmost probity and benevolence. If he [Smith] had 
been more a man of address and of the world, he might 
perhaps have given a ply to the Duke's fine mind, which 
was much better when left to its own energy. Charles 
Townshend had chosen Smith, not for his fitness for the 
purpose, but for his own glory in having sent an eminent 
Scottish philosopher to travel with the Duke. 

Smith had from the Duke a bond for a life annuity of 
£ 300, till an office of equal value was obtained for him in 
Britain. When the Duke got him appointed a Commis- 
sioner of the Customs in Scotland, he went out to Dalkeith 
with the bond in his pocket, and, offering it to the Duke, 
told him that he thought himself bound in honor to sur- 



MY FRIENDS. 305 

render the bond, as his Grace had now got him a place of 
£ 500. The Duke answered that Mr. Smith seemed more 
careful of his own honor than of his, wliich he found 
wounded by the proposal. Thus acted that good Duke, 
who, being entirely void of vanity, did not value himself 
on splendid generosities. He had acted in much the same 
manner to Dr. Hallam, who had been his tutor at Eton ; 
for when Mr. Townshend proposed giving Hallam an an- 
nuity of £ 100 when the Duke was taken from liim, " No," 
says he, " it is my desire that Hallam may have as much as 
Smith, it being a great mortification to him that he is not to 
travel with me." 

Though Smith had some little jealousy in his temper, he 
had the most unbounded benevolence. His smile of appro- 
bation was truly captivating. His affectionate temper was 
proved by his dutiful attendance on his mother. One in- 
stance I remember which marked his character. John 
Home and he, travelling down from London together [in 
1776], met David Hume going to Bath for the recovery of 
his health. He anxiously wished tliem both to return with 
him ; John agreed, but Smith excused himself on account of 
the state of his mother's health, whom he needs must see. 
Smith's fine writing is chiefly' displayed in his book on 
Moral Sentiment, which is the pleasantest and most elo- 
quent book on the subject. His Wealth of Nations, from 
which he was judged to be an inventive genius of the first 
order, is tedious and full of repetition. His separate essays 
in the second volume have the air of being occasional pam- 
phlets, without much force or determination. On political 
subjects his opinions were not very sound. 

Dr. Adam Ferguson was a very different kind of man. 
He was the son of a Highland clergyman, who was much 
respected, and had good connections. He had the pride 
and high spirit of his countrymen. He was bred at St. 
Andrews University, and had gone early into the world; 
20 



806 ALEXANDER CARLYLE. 

for being a favorite of a Duchess Dowager of Athole, and 
bred to the Church, she had him appointed chaplain to the 
42d regiment, then commanded by Lord John Murray, her 
son, when he was not more than twenty-two. The Duchess 
had imposed a very difficult task upon him, which was to be 
a kind of tutor or guardian to Lord John ; that is to say, to 
gain his confidence and keep him in peace with his officers, 
which it was difficult to do. This, however, he actually 
accomplished, by adding all the decorum belonging to the 
clerical character to the manners of a gentleman ; the effect 
of which was, that he was highly respected by all the 
officers, and adored by his countrymen, the common sol- 
diers. He remained chaplain to this regiment, and went 
about with them, till 1755, when they went to America, on 
which occasion he resigned, as it did not suit his views to 
attend them there. He was a year or two with them in 
Ireland, and likewise attended them on the expedition to 
Brittany under General Sinclair, where his friends David 
Hume and Colonel Edmonstone also were. This turned 
his mind to the study of war, which appears in his Roman 
History^ where many of the battles are better described than 
by any historian but Polybius, who was an eyewitness to so 
many. 

He had the manners of a man of the world, and the de- 
meanor of a high-bred gentleman, insomuch that his com- 
pany was much sought after ; for though he conversed with 
ease, it was with a dignified reserve. If he had any fault 
in conversation, it was of a piece with what I have said of 
his temper, for the elevation of his mind prompted him to 
such sudden transitions and dark allusions that it was not 
always easy to follow him, though he was a very good 
speaker. He had another talent, unknown to any but his 
intimates, which was a boundless vein of humor, which he 
indulged when there were none others present, and which 
flowed from his pen in every familiar letter he wrote. He 



MY FEIENDS. 307 

had tlie faults, however, that belonged to that character, for 
he was apt to be jealous of his rivals, and indignant against 
assumed superiority. His wife used to say that it was very 
fortunate that I was so much in Edinburgh, as I was a great 
peacemaker among them. She did not perceive that her 
own husband was the most difficult of them all. But as 
they were all honorable men in the highest degree, John 
Home and I together kept them on very good terms : I 
mean by them. Smith and Ferguson and David Hume ; for 
Kobertson was very good-natured, and soon disarmed the 
failing of Ferguson, of whom he was afraid. "With respect 
to taste, we held David Hume and Adam Smith inferior to 
the rest, for they were both prejudiced in favor of the 
French tragedies, and did not sufficiently appreciate Shake- 
speare and Milton. Their taste was a rational act, rather 
than the instantaneous effect of fine feeling. David Hume 
said Ferguson had more genius than any of them, as he 
had made himself so much master of a difficult science — 
viz. Natural Pliilosophy, which he had never studied but 
when at college — in three months, as to be able to 
teach it. 

The time came when those who were overawed by Fer- 
guson repaid him for his haughtiness ; for when his Roman 
History was published, at a period when he had lost his 
health, and had not been able to correct it diligently, by a 
certain propensity they had, unknown to themselves, ac- 
quired, to disparage everything that came from Ferguson, 
they did his book more hurt than they could have done by 
open criticism. It was provoking to hear those who were 
so ready to give loud praises to very shallow and imperfect 
English productions — to curry favor, as we su[)posed, with 
the booksellers and authors concerned — taking every 
opportunity to undermine the reputation of Ferguson's 
book. " It was not a Koman History," said they (which 
it did not say it was). " This delineation of the constitution 



308 ALEXANDER CARLYLE. 

of the Eepublic is well sketched ; but for the rest, it is. any- 
thing but history, and then it is so incorrect that is a perfect 
shame." All his other books met with the same treatment, 
while, at the same time, there were a few of us who could 
not refrain from saying that Ferguson's was the best history 
of Rome ; that what he had omitted was fabulous or insig- 
nificant, and what he had wrote was more profound in 
research into characters, and gave a more just delineation 
of them than any book now extant. The same^ thing we 
said of his book on Moral Philosophy, which we held to be 
the book that did the most honor of any to the Scotch phi- 
losophers, because it gave the most perfect picture of moral 
virtues, with all their irresistible attractions. His book on 
Civil Society ought only to be considered as a college ex- 
ercise, and yet there is in it a turn of thought and a species 
of eloquence peculiar to Ferguson. Smith had been weak 
enouofh to accuse him of having borrowed some of his inven- 
tions without owning them. This Ferguson denied, but 
owned he derived many notions from a French author, and 
that Smith had been there before him. David Hume did 
not live to see Ferguson's History, otherwise his candid 
praise would have prevented all the subtle remarks of the 
jealous or resentful. 

With respect to Robertson and Blair, their lives and 
characters have been fully laid before the public, — by 
Professor Dugald Stewart in a long life of Robertson, 
where, though the picture is rather in disjointed members, 
yet there is hardly anything omitted that tends to make a 
judicious reader master of the character. Dr. Blair's char- 
acter is more obvious in a short but very elegant and true 
account of him, drawn up by Dr. Finlayson. John Hill is 
writing a more diffuse account of the latter, which may not 
be so like. To the character of Robertson I have only to 
add here, that, though he was truly a very great master of 
conversation, and in general perfectly agreeable, yet he 



MY FRIENDS. 309 

appeared sometimes so very fond of talking, even when 
showing-ofF was out of the question, and so much addicted 
to the translation of other people's thoughts, that he some- 
times appeared tedious to his best friends. Being on one 
occasion invited to dine with Patrick Robertson, his brother, 
I missed my friend, whom I had met there on all former 
occasions ; " I have not invited him to-day," says Peter, 
" for I have a very good company, and he '11 let nobody 
speak but himself. Once he was staying with me for a 
week, and I carried him to dine with our parish club, who 
were fully assembled to see and hear Dr. Robertson, but 
Dr. Finlay of Drummore took it in his head to come that 
day, where he had not been for a year before, who took the 
lead, being then rich and self-sufficient, though a great 
babbler, and entirely disappointed the company, and gave 
us all the headache. He [Robertson] was very much a 
master of conversation, and very desirous to lead it, and to 
make dissertations and raise theories that sometimes pro- 
voked the laugh against him. One instance of this was 
when he had gone a jaunt into England with some of 
Henry Dundas's (Lord Melville's) family. He [Dundas] 
and Mr. Baron Cockburn and Robert Sinclair were on 
horseback, and seeing a gallows on a neighboring hillock, 
they rode round to have a nearer view of the felon on the 
gallows. When they met in the inn, Robertson immedi- 
ately began a dissertation on the character of nations, and 
how much the English, like the Romans, were hardened by 
their cruel diversions of cock-fighting, bull-baiting, bruising, 
&c. : for had they not observed three Englishmen on horse- 
back do what no Scotchman or Here Dundas, having 

compassion, interrupted him, and said, " What ! did you not 
know. Principal, that it was Cockburn and Sinclair and 
me ? " This put an end to theories, &c., for that day. 
Robertson's translations and paraphrases on other people's 
thoughts were so beautiful and so harmless that I never 



310 ALEXANDER CARLYLE. 

saw anybody lay claim to their own ; but it was not so when 
he forgot himself so far as to think he had been present 
where he had not been, and done what he had not the least 
hand in, — one very singular instance of which I remember. 
Hugh Bannatine and some clergyman of Haddington Presby- 
tery came to town in great haste, on their being threatened 
with having their goods distrained for payment of the win- 
dow tax. One of them called on me as he passed ; but as 
I was abroad, he left a note (or told Mrs. C), to come to 
them directly. I rode instantly to town and met them, and 
it was agreed on to send immediately to the solicitor, James 
Montgomery. A cady was despatched, but he could not be 
found, till I at last heard his voice as I passed the door of a 
neighboring room. He came to us on being sent for, and 
he immediately granted the alarmed brethren a sist. Not a 
week after, three or four of the same clergymen, dining at 
the Doctor's house, where I was, the business was talked of, 
when he said, " Was not I very fortunate in ferreting out 
the solicitor at Walker's, when no cady could find him?" 
" No, no," says I, " Principal ; I had that good-luck, and 
you were not so much as at the meeting." We had sent to 
him, and he could not come. " Well, well," replied he, " I 
have heard so much about it that I thought I had been 
there." He was the best-tempered man in the world, and 
the young gentlemen who had lived for many years in his 
house declared they never saw him once ruffled. His table, 
which had always been hospitable, even when his income 
was small, became full and elegant when his situation was 
improved. As he loved a long repast, as he called it, he 
was as ready to give it at home as to receive it abroad. 
The softness of his temper, and his habits at the head of a 
party, led him to seem to promise what he was not able to 
perform, which weakness raised up to him some very invet- 
erate enemies, while at the same time his true friends saw 
that those weaknesses were rather amiable than provoking. 



MY FRIENDS. 311 

He was not so mucli beloved by women as by men, which 
we laughingly used to say was owing to their rivalship as 
talkers, but was much more owing to his having been very 
little in company with ladies in his youth. He was early 
married, though his wife (a very good one) was not his first 
choice, as Stewart in his Life would make us believe. 
Though not very complaisant to women, he was not beyond 
their regimen any more than Dr. George Wishart, for in- 
stances of both their frailties on that side could be quoted. 
'T is as well to mention them here. In the year '78, when 
Drs. Robertson and Drysdale had with much pains prepared 
an assembly to elect young Mr. Robertson into the Procura- 
tor's chair, and to get Dr. Drysdale chosen Principal Clerk 
to the Assembly, as colleague and successor to Dr. George 
Wishart, it was necessary that Dr. Wishart should resign, 
in order to his being re-elected with Drysdale; but this, 
when first applied to, he positively refused to do, because he 
had given his word to Dr. Dick that he would give him a 
year's warning before he resigned. In spite of this declara- 
tion a siege was laid to the honest man by amazons. After 
several hearings, in which female eloquence was displayed 
in all its forms, and after many days, he yielded, as he said 
himself, to the earnest and violent solicitations of Dr. Drys- 
dale's family. He never after had any intercourse with that 
family, nor saw them more. Mr. James Lindsay told me 
this anecdote. 

Dr. Robertson's weakness was as follows : He had en- 
gaged heartily with me, when in 1788 I stood candidate for 
the clerkship, Dr. Drysdale having shown evident marks of 
decline. In the year 1787, I had a long evening's walk 
with the Procurator, when, after mentioning every candidate 
for that office we could think of, the Procurator at last said 
that nobody had such a good chance as myself. After a 
long discussion I yielded, and we in due form communicated 
this resolution to his father, who consented with all his 



312 ALEXANDER CARLYLE. 

heart, and gave us much advice and some aid. When the 
vacancy happened, in 1789, Robert Adam assisted his 
brother-in-law with all his interest, which was considerable. 
In the mean time the same influence was used with Dr. 
Robertson as had been with Dr. Wishart, in a still more 
formidable shape ; for Mrs. Drysdale was his cousin-german, 
and threatened him with the eternal hate of all the family. 
He also yielded ; and Robert Adam, when seriously pressed 
with a view to drop his canvass if Robertson advised to — 
" No," Robertson said, " go on " ; as he thought he had the 
best chance. Robert Adam told this to Professor Ferguson 
when he solicited his vote. 

Robertson's conversation was not always so prudent as 
his conduct, one instance of which was his always asserting 
that any minister of state who did not take care of himself 
when he had an opportunity was no very wise man. This 
maxim shocked most young people, who thought the Doc- 
tor's standard of public virtue was not very high. This 
manner of talking likewise seconded a notion that prevailed 
that he was a very selfish man. With all those defects, his 
domestic society was pleasing beyond measure ; for his wife, 
though not a woman of parts, was well suited to him, who 
was more fitted to lead than to be led ; and his sons and 
daughters led so happy a life that his guests, which we were 
often for a week together, met with nothing but welcome, and 
peace, and joy. This intercourse was not much diminished 
by his having not put any confidence in me when he left the 
business of the Church, further than saying that he intended 
to do it. Though he knew that I was much resorted to for 
advice when he retired, he never talked to me on the sub- 
ject, at which I was somewhat indignant. His deviations in 
politics lessened the freedom of our conversation, though we 
still continued in good habits ; but ever after he left the 
leading in Church affairs, he appeared to me to have lost his 
spirits : and still more, when the magistrates resorted to Dr. 



MY FRIENDS. 313 

Blair, instead of him, for advice about their choice of pro- 
fessors and ministers. I had discovered his having sacri- 
ficed me to Mrs. Drjsdale, in 1789, but was long acquainted 
with his weaknesses, and forgave him ; nor did I ever 
upbraid him with it but in general terms, such as that I 
had lost the clerkship by the keenness of my opponents and 
the coldness of my friends. I had such a conscious superi- 
ority over him in that affair that I did not choose to put an 
old friend to the trial of making his fault gi-eater by a lame 
excuse. 

Dr. Blair was a different kind of man from Robertson, 
and his character is very justly delineated by Dr. Finlayson, 
so far as he goes. Robertson was most sagacious, Blair was 
most naif. Neither of them could be said to have either wit 
or humor. Of the latter Robertson had a small tincture, — 
Blair had hardly a relish for it. Robertson had a bold and 
ambitious mind, and a strong desire to make himself con- 
siderable ; Blair was timid and unambitious, and withheld 
himself from public business of every kind, and seemed to 
have no wish but to be admired as a preacher, particularly 
by the ladies. His conversation was so infantine that many 
people thought it impossible, at first sight, that he could be 
a man of sense or genius. He was as eager about a new 
paper to his wife's drawing-room, or his own new wig, as 
about a new tragedy or a new epic poem. Not long before 
his death I called upon him, when I found him restless and 
fidgety. " What is the matter with you to-day," says I, 
" my good friend, — are you well ? " " O yes," says he, 
" but I must dress myself, for the Duchess of Leinster has 
ordered her granddaughters not to leave Scotland without 
seeing me." " Go and di'ess yourself. Doctor, and I shall 
read this novel ; for I am resolved to see the Duchess of 
Leinster's granddaughters, for I knew their father and 
grandfather." This being settled, the young ladies, with 
their governess, arrived at one, and turned out poor little 



314 ALEXANDER CAELYLE. 

girls of twelve and thirteen, who could hardly be supposed 
to carry a well-turned compliment which the Doctor gave 
them in charge to their grandmother. 

Robertson had so great a desire to shine himself, that I 
hardly ever saw him patiently bear anybody else's sho wing- 
off but Dr. Johnson and Garrick. Blair, on the contrary, 
though capable of the most profound conversation, when cir- 
cumstances led to it, had not the least desire to shine, but 
was delighted beyond measure to show other people in their 
best guise to his friends. " Did not I show you the lion 
well to-day ? " used he to say after the exhibition of a re- 
markable stranger. For a vain man, he was the least 
envious I ever knew. He had truly a pure mind, in which 
there was not the least malignity ; for though he was of a 
quick and lively temper, and apt to be warm and impatient 
about trifles, his wife, who was a superior woman, only 
laughed, and his friends joined her. Though Robertson 
was never ruffled, he had more animosity in his nature than 
Blair. They were both reckoned selfish by those who 
envied their prosperity, but on very unequal grounds ; for 
though Blair talked selfishly enough sometimes, yet he 
never failed in generous actions. In one respect they were 
quite alike. Having been bred at a time when the common 
people thought to play with cards or dice was a sin, and 
everybody thought it an indecorum in clergymen, they could 
neither of them play at golf or bowls, and far less at cards 
or backgammon, and on that account were very unhappy 
when from home in friends' houses in the country in rainy 
weather. As I had set the first example of playing at cards 
at home with unlocked doors, and so relieved the clergy 
from ridicule on that side, they both learned to play at 
whist after they were sixty. Robertson did very well, — 
Blair never shone. He had his country quarters for two 
summers in my parish, where he and his wife were quite 
happy. We were much together. Mrs. C, who had wit 



MY FRIENDS. 315 

and humor in a high degree, and an acuteness and extent of 
mind that made her fit to converse with philosophers, and 
indeed a great favorite with them all, gained much upon 
Blair; and, as Mrs. B. alleged, could make him believe 
whatever she pleased. They took delight in raising the 
wonder of the sage Doctor. " Who told you that story, my 
dear Doctor ? " " No," says he, " don't you doubt it, for it 
was Mrs. C. who told me." On my laughing, — " and so, 
so," said he, " I must hereafter make allowance for her imag- 
ination." 

Blair had lain under obligation to Lord Leven's family 
for his first church, which he left within the year; but 
though that connection was so soon dissolved, and though 
Blair took a side in Church politics wholly opposite to 
Lord Leven's, the Doctor always behaved to the family 
with great respect, and kept up a visiting correspondence 
with them all his life. Not so Robertson with the Arniston 
family, who had got him the church of Gladsmuir. The 
first President failed and died — not, however, till he had 
marked his approbation of Robertson — in 1751. His 
manner had not been pleasing to him, so that he was alien- 
ated till Harry grew up ; but him he deserted also, on the 
change in 1782, being dazzled with the prospect of his son's 
having charge of ecclesiastical affairs, as his cousin John 
Adam was to have of political, during Rockingham's new 
ministry. This threw a cloud on Robertson which was 
never dispelled. Blair had for a year been tutor to Simon 
Fraser, Lord Lovat's eldest son, whose steady friendship he 
preserved to the last, though the General was not remark- 
able for that amiable weakness ; witness the saying of a 
common soldier whom he had often promised to make a 
sergeant, but never performed, " Simon, Simon, as long 
as you continue to live. Lord Lovat is not dead." 

Five or six days before he [Blair] died, finding him well 
and in good spirits, I said to him, " Since you don't choose to 



316 ALEXANDER CARLYLE. 

dine abroad in this season (December), you may at least let 
a friend or two dine with you." " Well, well, come you and 
dine with me to-morrow," looking earnestly at Miss Hunter, 
his niece. " I am engaged to-morrow, but I can return at 
four to-day." He looked more earnestly at his niece. 
" What 's to hinder him ? " said she, meaning to answer his 
look, which said, " Have you any dinner to-day, Betty ? " 
I returned, accordingly, at four, and never passed four 
hours more agreeably with him, nor had more enlightened 
conversation. Nay more, three days before his death he 
sent to John Home a part of his History, with two or three 
pages of criticism on that part of it that relates to Provost 
Drummond, in which he and I thought John egregiously 
wrong. 

It was long before Blair's circumstances were full, yet he 
lived handsomely, and had literary strangers at his house, as 
well as many friends. A task imposed on both Robertson 
and Blair was reading manuscript prepared for the press, of 
which Blair had the greatest share of the poetry, and Rob- 
ertson of the other writings, and they were both kind 
encouragers of young men of merit. 




-EifcgW- - 






BEATRICE'S SONG. 

By PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 

COME, I will sing you some low, sleepy tune. 
Not cheerful, nor yet sad ; some dull old thing, 
Some outworn and unused monotony, 
Such as our country gossips sing and spin, 
Till they almost forget they live : lie down ! 
So ; that will do. Have I forgot the words ? 
Faith ! they are sadder than I thought they were. 

SONG. 

False friend, wilt thou smile or weep 
When my life is laid asleep ? 
Little cares for a smile or a tear 
The clay-cold corpse upon the bier ; 

Farewell ! Heigh-ho ! 

"What is this whispers low ? 
There is a snake in thy smile, my dear ; 
And bitter poison within thy tear. 

Sweet sleep ! were death like to thee. 
Or if thou couldst mortal be, 
I would close these eyes of pain ; 
When to wake ? Never again. 

O World ! farewell ! 

Listen to the passing bell ! 
It says, thou and I must part. 
With a light and a heavy heart. 



THE CHILDREN'S CITIES. 



By ELIZABETH SHEPPARD. 



THERE was a certain king who had three sons, and 
who, loving them all alike, desired to leave them to 
reign over his kingdom as brothers, and not one above 
another. 

His kingdom consisted of three beautiful cities, divided 
by valleys covered with flowers and full of grass ; but the 
cities lay so near each other that from the walls of each you 
could see the walls of the other two. The first city was 
called the city of Lessonland, the second the city of Confec- 
tion, and the third the city of Pastime. 

The king, feeling himself very old and feeble, sent for the 
lawyers to write his will for him, that his children might 
know how he wished them to behave after he was dead. 
So the lawyers came to the palace, and went into the king's 
bedroom, where he lay in his golden bed, and the will was 
drawn up as he desired. 

One day, not long after the will was made, the king's fool 
was trying to make a boat of a leaf to sail it upon the silver 
river. And the fool thought the paper on which the will 
was written would make a better boat, — for he could not 
read what was written ; so he ran to the palace quickly, and 
knowing where it was laid, he got the will and made a boat 
of it and set it sailing upon the river, and away it floated out 
of sight. And the worst of all was, that the king took such 



THE CHILDREN'S CITIES. 319 

a fright, when the will blew away, that he could speak no 
more when the lawyers came back with the golden ink. 
And he never made another will, but died without telHng 
his sons what he wished them to do. 

However, the king's sons, though they had little bodies, 
because they were princes of the Kingdom of Childi-en, were 
very good little persons, — at least, they had not yet been 
naughty, and had never quarrelled, — so that the child- 
people loved them almost as well as they loved each other. 
The child-people were quite pleased that the princes should 
rule over them; but they did not know how to arrange, 
because there was no king's will, and by rights the eldest 
ought to have the whole kingdom. But the eldest, whose 
name was Gentil, called his brothers to him and said, — 

" I am quite sure, though there is no will, that our royal 
papa built the three cities that we might each have one to 
reign over, and not one reign over all. Therefore I will 
have you both, dear brothers, choose a city to govern over 
and I will govern over the city you do not choose. 

And his brothers danced for joy ; and the people too were 
pleased, for they loved all the three princes. But there 
were not enough people in the kingdom to fill more than 
one city quite full. Was not this very odd? Gentil 
thought so, but, as he could not make out the reason, he said 
to the child-people, — 

" I will count you, and divide you into three parts, and 
each part shall go to one city." 

For, before the king had built the cities, the child-people 
had lived in the green valleys, and slept on beds of flowers. 

So Joujou, the second prince, chose the city of Pastime ; 
and Bonbon, the youngest prince, chose the city of Confec- 
tion ; and the city of Lessonland was left for Prince Gentil, 
who took possession of it directly. 

And first let us see -how the good Gentil got on in his 
city. 



820 ELIZABETH SHEPPARD. 

The city of Lessonland was built of books, all books, and 
only books. The walls were books, set close like bricks, 
and the bridges over the rivers (which were very blue) 
were built of books in arches, and there were books to pave 
the roads and paths, and the doors of the houses were books 
with golden letters on the outside. The palace of Prince 
Gentil was built of the largest books, all bound in scarlet 
and green and purple and blue and yellow. And inside the 
palace all the loveliest pictures were hung upon the walls, 
and the handsomest maps ; and in his library were all the 
lesson-books and all the story-books in the world. Directly 
Gentil began to reign, he said to himself, — 

" What are all these books for ? They must mean that 
we are to learn, and to become very clever, in order to be 
good. I wish to be very clever, and to make my people so ; 
so I must set them a good example." 

And he called all his child-people together, who would do 
anything for the love of him, and he said, — 

"If we mean to be of any use in the world, we must 
learn, learn, learn, and read, read, read, and always be doing 
lessons." 

And they said they ^ould, to please him ; and they all 
gathered together in the palace council-chamber, and Gen- 
til set them tasks, the same as he set himself, and they 
all went home to learn them, while he learned his in the 
palace. 

Now let us see how Joujou is getting on. He was a 
good prince, Joujou, — 0, so fond of fun ! as you may be- 
lieve, from his choosing the city of Pastime. that city 
of Pastime ! how unlike the city of dear, dull Lessonland ! 
The walls of the city of Pastime were beautiful toy-bricks, 
painted all the colors of the rainbow ; and the streets of the 
city were filled with carriages just big enough for child- 
people to drive in, and little gigs, and music-carts, and post- 
chaises, that ran along by clock-work, and such rocking- 



THE CHILDREN'S CITIES. 321 

horses ! And there was not to be found a book in the whole 
city, but the houses were crammed with toys from the top 
to the bottom, — tops, hoops, balls, battledoors, bows and 
aiTOWs, guns, peep-shows, drums and trumpets, marbles, 
ninepins, tumblers, kites, and hundreds upon hundreds more, 
for there you found every toy that ever was made in the 
world, besides thousands of large wax dolls, all in different 
court-dresses. And directly Joujou began to reign, he said 
to himself, — 

" What are all these toys for ? They must mean that we 
are to play always, that we may be always happy. I wish 
to be very happy, and that my people should be happy, 
always. Won't I set them an example ? " 

And Joujou blew a penny-trumpet, and got on the back 
of the largest rocking-horse and rocked with all his might, 
and cried, — 

" Child-people, you are to play always, for in all the city 
of Pastime you see nothing else but toys ! " 

The child-people did not wait long ; some jumped on 
rocking-horses, some drove off in carriages,' and some in 
gigs and music-carts. And organs were played, and bells 
rang, and shuttlecocks and kites flew up the blue sky, 
and there was laughter, laughter, in all the streets of Pas- 
time! 

And now for little Bonbon, how is he getting on ? He 
was a dear little fat fellow, — but, 0, so fond of sweets ! as 
you may believe, from his choosmg the city of Confection. 
And there were no books in Confection, and no toys ; but 
the walls were built of gingerbread, and the houses were 
built of gingerbread, and the bridges of barley-sugar, that 
glittered in the sun. And rivers ran with wine through the 
streets, sweet wine, such as child-people love ; and Christ- 
mas-trees grew along the banks of the rivers, ^ath candy 
and almonds and golden nuts on the branches ; and in eveiT 
house the tables were made of sweet bro^vn chocolate, and 
21 



322 ELIZABETH SHEPPARD. 

there were great plum-cakes on tlie tables, and little cakes, 
and all sorts of cakes. And when Bonbon began to reign 
he did not think much about it, but began to eat directly, 
and called out, witli his mouth full, — 

" Child-people, eat always ! for in all the city of Confec- 
tion there is nothing but cakes and sweets." 

And did not the child-people fall to, and eat directly, and 
eat on, and eat always ? 

Now by this time what has happened to Gentil ? for we 
left him in the city of Lessonland. All the first day he 
learned the lessons he had set himself, and the people 
learned theirs too, and they all came to Gentil in the even- 
ing to say them to the Prince. But by the time Gentil had 
heard all the lessons, he was very, very tired, — so tired 
that he tumbled asleep on the throne ; and when the child- 
people saw their prince was asleep, they thought they might 
as well go to sleep too. And when Gentil awoke, the next 
morning, behold ! there were all his people asleep on the 
floor. And he looked at his watch, and found it was very 
late, and he woke up the people, crying, with a very loud 
voice, — 

" It is very late, good people ! " 

And the people jumped up, and rubbed their eyes, and 
cried, — 

" We have been learning always, and we can no longer 
see to read, — the letters dance before our eyes." 

And all the child-people groaned, and cried very bitterly 
behind their books. Then Gentil said, — 

" I will read to you, my people, and that will rest your 
eyes." 

And he read them a delightful story about animals ; but 
when he stopped to show them a picture of a lion, the 
people were all asleep. Then Gentil grew angry, and cried 
in a loud voice, — 

" Wake up, idle people, and listen ! " 



THE CHILDREN'S CITIES. 323 

But when the people woke up, they were stupid, and sat 
like cats and sulked. So Gentil put the book away, and 
sent them home, giving them each a long task for their 
rudeness. The child-people went away ; but, as they found 
only books out of doors, and only books at home, they 
went to sleep without learning their tasks. And all the 
fifth day they slept. But on the sixth day Gentil went out 
to see what they were doing ; and they began to throw their 
books about, and a book knocked Prince Gentil on the 
head, and hurt him so much that he was oblij2:ed to fj^o to 

? DO 

bed. And while he was in bed, the people began to fight, 
and to throw the books at one another. 

Now as for Joujou and his people, they began to play, 
and went on playing, and did nothing else but play. And 
would you believe it ? — they got tired too. The first day 
and the second day nobody thought he ever could be tired, 
amongst the rocking-horses and whips and marbles and 
kites and dolls and carriages. But the third day every- 
body wanted to ride at once, and the carriages were so 
full that they broke down, and the rocking-horses rocked 
over, and wounded some little men ; and the little wo- 
men snatched their dolls from one another, and the dolls 
were broken. And on the fourth day the Prince Joujou 
cut a hole in the very largest drum, and made the drum- 
mer angry ; and the drummer thrcAV a drumstick at Jou- 
jou, and Prince Joujou told the drummer he should go to 
prison. Then the drummer got on the top of the jDainted 
wall, and shot arrows at the Prince, which did not hurt 
him much, because they were toy-arrows, but which made 
Joujou very much afraid, for he did not wisli his j)eople to 
hate him. 

" What do you want ? " he cried to the drummer. " Tell 
me what I can do to please you. Shall we play at marbles, 
or balls, or knock down the golden ninepins ? Or shall we 
have Punch and Judy in the court of the palace ? " 



324 ELIZABETH SHEPPAED. 

" Yes ! yes ! " cried the people, and the drummer jumped 
down from the wall. " Yes ! yes ! Punch and Judy ! We 
are tired of marbles, and balls, and ninepins. But we 
sha'n't be tired of Punch and Judy ! " 

So the people gathered together in the court of the 
palace, and saw Punch and Judy over and over again, all 
day long on the fifth day. And they had it so often, that, 
when the sixth day came they pulled down the stage, and 
broke Punch to pieces, and burned Judy, and screamed out 
that they were so hungry they did not know what to do. 
And the drummer called out, — 

" Let us eat Prince Joujou ! " 

But the people loved him still ; so they answered, — 

" No ! but we will go out of the city and invade the city 
of Confection, and fight them, if they won't give us anything 
to eat ! " 

So out they went, with Joujou at their head ; for Joujou, 
too, was dreadfully hungry. And they crossed the green 
valley to the city of Confection, and began to try and eat 
the gingerbread walls. But the gingerbread was hard, be- 
cause the walls had been built in ancient days ; and the 
people tried to get on the top of the walls, and when they 
had eaten a few holes in the gingerbread, they climbed up 
by them to the top. And there they saw a dreadful sight. 
All the people had eaten so much that they were ill, or else 
so fat that they could not move. And the people were 
lying about in the streets, and by the side of the rivers of 
sweet wine, but, 0, so sick, that they could eat no more ! 
And Prince Bonbon, who had got into the largest Christ- 
mas-tree, had eaten all the candy upon it, and grown so fat 
that he could not move, but stuck up there among the 
branches. When the people of Pastime got upon the walls, 
however, the people of Confection were very angry ; and 
one or two of those who could eat the most, and who still 
kept on eating while they were sick, threw apples and cakes 



THE CHILDREN'S CITIES. 325 

at the people of Pastime, and shot Joujou with sugar-plums, 
which he picked up and ate, while his people were eating 
down the plum-cakes, and drinking the wine till they were 
tipsy. 

As soon as Gentil heard what a dreadful noise his people 
were making, he got up, though he still felt poorly, and went 
out into the streets. The people were fighting, alas ! worse 
than ever ; and they were trying to pull down the strong 
book-walls, that they might get out of the city. A good 
many of them were wounded in the head, as well as Prince 
Gentil, by the heavy books falling upon them ; and Gentil 
was very sorry for the people. 

" If you want to go out, good people," he said, " I will 
open the gates and go with you ; but do not pull down the 
book-walls." 

And they obeyed Gentil, because they loved him, and 
Gentil led them out of the city. When they had crossed 
the first green valley, they found the city of Pastime empty, 
not a creature in it! and broken toys in the streets. At 
sight of the toys, the poor book-people cried for joy, and 
wanted to stop and jjlay. So Gentil left them in the city, 
and went on alone across the next green valley. But the 
city of Confection was crammed so full with sick child- 
people belonging to Bonbon, and with Joujou's hungry ones, 
that Gentil could not get in at the gate. So he wandered 
about in the green valleys, very unhappy, until he came to 
his old father's palace. There he found the fool, sitting on 
the banks of the river. 

" fool," said Gentil, " I wish I knew what my father 
meant us to do!" 

And the fool tried to comfort Gentil ; and they walked 
together by the river where the fool had made the boat of 
the will, without knowing what it was. They walked a long 
way, Gentil crying, and the fool trying to comfort him, 
when suddenly the fool saw the boat he had made, lying 



326 ELIZABETH SHEPPARD. 

among some green rushes. And the fool ran to fetch it, 
and brought it to show Gentil. And Gentil saw some writ- 
ing on the boat, and knew it was his father's writing. Then 
Gentil was glad indeed ; he unfolded the paper, and thereon 
he read these words, — for a good king's words are not 
washed away by water : — 

" My will and pleasure is, that my dearly beloved sons. 
Prince Gentil, Prince Joujou, and Prince Bonbon, should 
all reign together over the three cities which I have built. 
But there are onl}'- enough child-people to fill one city ; for 
I know that the child-people cannot live always in pne city. 
Therefore let the three princes, with Gentil, the eldest, 
wearing the crown, lead all the child-people to the city of 
Lessonland in the morning, that the bright sun may shine 
upon their lessons and make them pleasant ; and Gentil to 
set the tasks. And in the afternoon let the three princes, 
with Joujou wearing the crown, lead all the child-people to 
the city of Pastime, to play until the evening ; and Joujou 
to lead the games. And in the evening let the three 
princes, with Bonbon wearing the croAvn, lead all the child- 
people to the city of Confection, to drink sweet wine and 
pluck fruit off the Christmas-trees until time for bed ; and 
little Bonbon to cut the cake. And at time for bed, let the 
child-people go forth into the green valleys and sleep upon 
the beds of flowers : for in Child Country it is always 
spring." 

This was the king's will, found at last ; and Gentil, whose 
great long lessons had made him wise, (though they had 
tired him too,) thought the will the cleverest that was ever 
made. And he hastened to the city of Confection, and 
knocked at the gate till they opened it ; and he found all 
the people sick by this time, and very pleased to see him, 
for they thought him very wise. And Gentil read the will 
in a loud voice, and the people clapped their hands and 
began to get better directly, and Bonbon' called to them to 



THE CHILDKEN'S CITIES. 327 

lift him down out of the tree where he had stuck, and Jou- 
jou danced for joj. 

So the king's will was obeyed. And in the morning the 
people learned their lessons, and afterwards they played, 
and afterwards they enjoyed their feasts. And at bed-time 
they slept upon the beds of flowers, in the green valleys : for 
in Child Country it is always spring. 




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Cambridge : Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 



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